


Following the Beast

by Footloose, mushroomtale



Series: The Wicked Man [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Angels, Angst, Antichrist, Dark Magic, Demons, Dubious Morality, Fallen Angels, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Murder, Nephilim, Occult, Religious Fanaticism, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Ritual Sex, Rough Sex, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-28 16:39:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 66,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5097695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Footloose/pseuds/Footloose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mushroomtale/pseuds/mushroomtale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur grew up surrounded by emotionless attendants, was forced to suppress his true nature, and was regularly trotted out as a special-occasion showpiece for the entertainment of pedantic mortals.  As he approaches adulthood, he decides that it's time for him to break free of the leash and to take his rightful place on the throne.</p><p>There are agents of Heaven and Hell who would stop him.  His own half-sister desires the power for herself.  His human father refuses to allow Arthur out of his control.  The Fallen sperm donor responsible for Arthur's existence wants to take his place.</p><p>Arthur's young.  His power has yet to mature.  All the allies he has made and the loyal men who follow him won't be enough to protect him until he can build the Kingdom he has dreamed of since he was a child.</p><p>He needs the help of the person who makes angels and demons quaver in fear at the mere mention of his name.  Of the broken, down-trodden man who is now a pale shade of the terror he had been decades ago.   He needs Merlin, and Arthur has every intention of making Merlin his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Following the Beast

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fanart: In The Name of The Father](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4094500) by [mushroomtale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mushroomtale/pseuds/mushroomtale). 



> Following the Beast wouldn't exist if it hadn't first been inspired by Mushroomtale's beautiful artwork, In The Name of the Father. My thanks go to, first and foremost, Mushroomtale, who not only allowed me to use this artwork for inspiration, but who was a wonderful cheerleader and a sounding board for plot ideas. If that wasn't enough, she went above and beyond and added more artwork to go with this story.
> 
> I'd like to thank Jsea for the beta and La_Temperenza and Val_Creative for running the Merlin Horror 2015 fest.
> 
> Ebooks have been compiled for .mobi and .ePub and include all of the artwork. The download links are:
> 
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> [Kindle (mobi)](https://www.hightail.com/download/bXBaQndDVnNsUitHR3NUQw)  
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> 
>  
> 
> [iBook (ePub)](https://www.hightail.com/download/bXBaQndDVnM4Q1IzZU1UQw)  
> 
> 
> * * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Red skies in morning, sailor's warning --_

Tentacles lashed out of the darkness and knocked Merlin off his feet. Another appendage whipped out and wrapped around his throat before he could raise his arms to defend himself, choking him as it squeezed tighter and tighter.

He managed enough air to _curse_ , and the slick tree-trunk tentacle around his neck slackened. Merlin dropped and rolled away, free.

The creature pulled itself out of the narrow hole in the ground, its body expanding as it emerged.

Merlin reconsidered. He was free.

For now.

He ran at the witch. The witch didn't see him coming; the collision was enough to disrupt the minor summoning. The creature managed one last whip's strike at Merlin, and the slash across the back of his thighs was so blindingly painful that Merlin let the witch go.

The witch scrambled away and resumed his incantations. Merlin struggled to his feet, his hand hitting something hard.

The witch's athamé.

Merlin grabbed it. Corrupted magic seeped into his hand, through him --

And Merlin's own magic, buried deep down and locked in a spiritual cage, howled in outrage at the intrusion.

His attention was torn between ensuring that his magic didn't break free from the chains he himself had put on it and casting a hex to prevent the athamé from tainting his aura and using him as part of the sacrifice. In the distraction, he lost sight of the witch, but those low-toned and whispered chants were coming from _somewhere_.

When Merlin had first heard the stirrings that someone of modest power intended on raising a demon from the lowest spheres of Hell, he'd dismissed them as nothing but unsubstantiated rumours. Accessing the lowest spheres required an uncommon incantation, and most of the intricate spell work had been destroyed at the turn of the century by the Cult of the Rising Dawn.

Despite how thorough the Rising Dawn had been in their cutthroat quest to eliminate every avenue to Hell, they'd missed the _Confractus Codex_.

That same _Codex_ was stolen from a private collector of Merlin's arcane acquaintance two days and seven hours ago.

Merlin whirled around at a squelching sound. He saw the tentacle creature emerging from the hole in the ground. The earth's crust and natural energies was the only obstacle to free passage between the realms, but it had been split open and the tear was widening.

He had an idle thought that the creature should bloat and collapse without the deep sea pressures keeping it together.

Instead, the creature _grew_. The more it emerged, the larger it became. A hard beak with sharp teeth, spiky tentacles, narrow-slit eyes.

Merlin exhaled and shook his head.

"Of course," he said.

It couldn't be easy. It was never fucking easy.

He was underprepared. The handful of paper wards -- drawn in Japanese _kanji_ using a mixture of indigo ink and ground tortoiseshell -- had missed their mark and were lost in the wind. The counter-ritual he'd painted on his body hadn't dried properly and was smeared uselessly. He hadn't even thought of bringing a gun.

A gun was _really fucking handy_ in a magic fight.

The creature emerged fully from the pit. Its mere presence was a drowning pressure in Merlin's chest. The temptation to use the ceremonial knife he'd taken out of the witch's hand was overwhelming, but he knew if he tainted the blood already on the blade, he would never be able to stop the witch from summoning the demon from the lower planes.

Merlin stumbled backward to relieve the pressure, tripping through the shoddily-built pentacle and into blazing, sulfuric flames. The leg of Merlin's trousers caught on fire, but he was distracted from the pain when the squid-creature caught him by the throat again. He clawed the suckers from his throat and scrambled free, shaking out his burning leg as he scrambled to get away.

Where the _fuck_ was that witch?

Another tentacle struck and sent Merlin careening into the jagged edge of a cheap bargain-store table that had been dragged into the city park for use as a sacrificial altar. Merlin slipped across the blood-slick surface, nearly dropping the knife.

Turning, Merlin raised his arm and shouted, " _Hursha th'ku ewwei --_ "

An enchantment curled around his body, forming a tangle of invisible brambles that spread out. Merlin gasped, shoving at the brambles with his free hand. He choked as the lengths wrapped around his chest and struggled backward on weak legs. He slipped on a pentacle stone and crumpled against the jagged edge of the makeshift altar. The table bowed under his weight, creaking as if it would break, but held him upright as the witch crushed Merlin as if he were an aluminum soda can. The brambles cut through his clothes and skin as if he were coiled in barbed wire.

Without the painted ritual on his body, Merlin was going to have to perform the reversal the slow way. But he couldn't concentrate on the casting and save himself at the same time, so he went for the only viable option.

He raised the bloodied blade of the athamé, his arm trembling to keep it parallel with the horizon, and cast the rite.

Every syllable was rewarded by a vice-like squeeze that never lessened. Sibilants were bare, breathy hisses, glottal clicks were gasps of pain, gutturals were accompanied by the groaning cracks of ribs splintering, breaking, shattering.

_Red skies in morning, shepherd's warning --_

The ground split open beneath Merlin's feet. The witch smirked and moved away. The ritual didn't need more power to summon the creature, not at this stage, and all the witch needed to do was to keep Merlin from shutting it down.

Merlin's vision blackened around the edges. He saw stars. His limbs trembled, he was light-headed, and he was going to be the demon's first meal.

He managed the last few words, though the last syllable was a breathy whisper. The ground shook as the demon fought to breach this plane before Merlin could complete the banishing. Merlin only needed to do one more thing. Just one.

But he couldn't move.

He barely felt the ground crumbling at his feet, too startled by the witch's appearance across the clearing. The lights were going out all around him and he couldn't be sure if it was because of the dark magic in the air or because he was losing consciousness -- probably the latter. He dug deep, deep down for the last vestiges of his strength, pouring all of his focus and will into the reversal.

His magic broke loose.

" _No!_ "

Merlin dropped the ritual and reached out to contain his magic, but the floodgates had opened and refused to close. His magic danced around him, teasing, taunting, _free_. It evaded his grasp, refusing to be contained, wanting to be used.

A monstrous, three-fingered hand reached through the fires contained by the pentagram and slapped down onto the ground. The earth shook. A tree fell.

It was too late to try the ritual again. Merlin glanced at his hands. At the blue-white lights that were as bright as galaxies in the night sky. At the fan of flames licking up his arms, just as cutting and dangerous as he remembered.

More than fifteen years had passed since he'd shaped and forged his magic into a weapon capable of merciless and absolute destruction. Ten years since lashing out at his best friend and coming to the cold realization that his magic wasn't a weapon -- that _he_ had become the weapon. He hadn't used his magic since the day he buried Will.

The ground shook as the demon continued to emerge.

Merlin didn't have anything left. No alternative magical option, no defense, no recourse. Pride, more than anything else, kept him from running away from a two-bit witch who had succeeded in summoned a demon powerful enough to cause some serious damage. He wasn't afraid of dying, but it was fear that drove him to stay alive, because his past transgressions had closed the doors of Heaven and his soul had nowhere else to go but down, down, _down_.

Right where he'd banished countless other demons who were waiting for death to deliver him to eternal damnation.

He was not going to be a demon's bitch.

"I'm sorry, Will," Merlin whispered.

He threw his magic at the Cthulhu knock-off creeping around the clearing in an attempt to escape the rising demon. The blue-white light flared out in flames, tumbling head over heel like a two-headed axe, thudding into the creature. Tentacles lashed defensively before collapsing.

 

 

 

 

The witch gaped at Merlin.

The earth trembled as the demon reached for purchase and hauled itself out of the pit.

Merlin corralled his magic and redirected it, battering at the witch's enchantment. At any other time, the ritual would be shredded, the summoning collapsing under the sheer might of Merlin's magic. But it had been too long since he had used his magic like this, and a moment of uncertainty was all that the demon needed to pull itself out of the pit --

Merlin turned without thinking.

He threw the athamé.

Blood for blood, sacrifice for sacrifice.

The magic hanging in the air shattered. Symbols drawn in the ether and visible only to the Gifted disintegrated. Some collapsed; others _un_ wrote themselves, the lines and squiggles erasing in the same order they had been cast.

The demon roared. It clambered desperately, clawing for purchase, only to get sucked down.

The ground burbled dirt and sand, spat out a turbulent and desperate splutter of heat, crumbling silently until the uneven circle within the pentagram stopped churning entirely.

It was over.

The demon was banished. The ritual interrupted. The witch dead -- Merlin didn't need to check for a pulse for confirmation.

He leaned against the bloody table, gasping for air. He didn't want to move. Everything hurt when he did.

He couldn't stay.

Someone would have heard the commotion. Someone would come by. They'd notice the russet brown stains in the dawning light and follow the tracks to bodies.

Merlin's fingerprints were all over the place. On the table, on the rocks, on the hilt of the athamé. Traces of his DNA -- blood and skin and hair -- were everywhere. His magic, not seen for the better part of a decade, was still easily recognizable by those who knew how to pick it apart and match the signature to the wielder. He might as well have rubber-stamped his name on the destruction and the dead body.

He staggered away, grunting in pain with every step. He leaned against a tree.

That someone would come sniffing around the ritual site to find out what happened was inevitable. They might even track it back to him. Merlin could deal with other magic users, but the last thing he needed was for the police to find his prints, run them through the database, and come knocking on his door. He was too beat up and too damn tired to deal with a long interrogation session that would leave the police without answers and Merlin locked up on murder charges.

And yet…

A long prison sentence in cramped quarters was more appealing than the prospect of a future hunting down more power-tripping magic users. For all of his sins, imprisonment was the least that Merlin deserved. But Merlin knew he couldn't live with himself if he hid behind concrete walls for the next twenty to sixty years while the world was nicely packed in a handcrafted basket and shipped off to Hell by power-hungry sorcerers, vindictive Celestials, and bored demons.

With a reluctant sigh, Merlin used his magic to wipe out every indication that he'd even been there, and tried not to think too much about how _easy_ it was to fall back into old habits.

Merlin located and retrieved the _Codex_. He limped away before someone saw him, the book tucked under his trench coat. He raised the collar to block the wind, and hoped that if he ran into someone, they wouldn't take a close look at the stains.

He paused at the edge of the park. The cityscape was a broken line in the distance, misty steam rising up toward the dark hills, dissipating into the pink-yellow hue of a sky rapidly draining of red. He breathed in relief. The clear skies were a good sign.

The kerb was a precipice that left him staggering as he crossed the road. He crashed into a building and held on for dear life. He reached under his coat only to draw away with a palm full of fresh blood from magical injuries that should have healed by now.

"I just need some sleep," he told himself, and tried to remember where he left his car. A block north? Two?

He crossed another street, missing a step when his legs buckled under him. Tires screeched, horns honked, impatient drivers shouted for him to _Get out of the fucking way_. He gestured weakly, tried to push himself to his feet, but he didn't have the strength.

A car backed away from Merlin and rumbled past. Merlin rolled onto his side and closed his eyes.

A ten-second nap. That was all he needed. Ten seconds.

Gentle hands stroked his face. Brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. Patted his cheek multiple times.

"Wake up, darling."

Merlin groaned and pulled away. "Nine more seconds."

A heavy sigh. "Of course, you'd be difficult about this. Come on. At least pretend to cooperate with me."

Merlin didn't know who rolled him onto his side. If he was the one who stood up on his own or if those fleeting touches down his legs were real. His world went off-kilter in a blur of jerky motions. The pavement. The traffic stripes. A stop sign.

Blond hair. Blue eyes. An exasperated, fond smile.

Designer shoes, pressed trousers.

"Let's get you home."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Arthur sighed.

A bottle of brown sauce. A six pack of beer. A carton of eggs with only two eggs left. Three packets of soy sauce. A Styrofoam container of mouldy, unidentifiable take-away.

Arthur had begun this little side endeavour with one goal and one only: to see whether the old stories about Merlin were true. As pleased as he was that his little ploy had worked in proving the naysayers wrong that Merlin's magic hadn't been depleted, only suppressed, he couldn't help but to feel thoroughly disillusioned by the contents of Merlin's refrigerator.  
_  
_ Clearly, given Merlin's show of near-complete lack of self-preservation that morning, Arthur couldn't also expect him to be taking proper care of himself.

Arthur closed the refrigerator door and tried the icebox. He was pleased to find a bag of peas, but that small victory turned sour when he noticed the stains across the brand name and the field of green, forming a handprint that ended with the fingertips pointing at the nutritional information.

Old blood.

The blood was a sign that Merlin's survival instinct had never properly developed. Arthur would have to work on that.

Briefly, Arthur considered cutting his losses and moving on. His research had turned up several other potential candidates, though none of them had been anywhere as promising as Merlin. If even a tenth of the stories he'd heard about Merlin were true, there were no sorcerers, alive or dead, who could compare to him on any level.

It would be ridiculous for Arthur to settle for second best, given the circumstances. He was running out of time. Merlin would have to do. A little manipulation would be required to secure Merlin's unwavering loyalty, but it was a small price to pay in exchange for freedom from Uther's band of Satanic followers and an additional layer of safety against his half-sister's machinations.

Growing up in a sheltered household and surrounded by stern tutors, solicitous believers, and greedy stakeholders had been a necessity for both his education and protection. Those interactions had been amusing and entertaining, at first, but as Arthur grew older, he began to see them as tiresome annoyances.

Uther had somehow gotten it in his head that he had absolute control over Arthur, that he would reap his advantages for decades to come. He hadn't sacrificed his beloved wife for nothing. Uther Pendragon's vision of the future was one where he was not only in power, but in command, with Arthur as his pawn.

Arthur had had quite enough of being told what to do and how. It was time to strike out on his own. Arthur was destined to rule a kingdom on earth, but there wouldn't be a kingdom to rule if he didn't build it first. He'd already begun, right under Uther's nose, usurping connections, associates, and even loyal men and women who provided him with anything and everything he needed. Uther would lock Arthur up in punishment if he knew that Arthur's well-positioned "friends" weren't human at all, but a growing army of nephilim flocking to his banner

There was one thing that Arthur needed before he could break away completely, and that was to acquire a weapon capable of countering any agents that Heaven or Hell would send to stop Arthur from succeeding. All the artefacts of old had been destroyed or lost, but there was one person, just _one_ , who could make angels and demons alike quake merely by saying his name.

 _Emrys_.

No, Arthur decided. He would see this through. The nephilim who counselled and supported Arthur had expressed reservations about his choice, but after seeing Merlin in action, Arthur knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Merlin was the perfect candidate.  
There was something about him. It felt right.

Arthur tilted his head and studied Merlin. Merlin was splayed out on the sofa, lean and long-limbed, broad-shouldered and solid.

While Arthur's decision to convert Merlin to his cause came from coveting Merlin's reputation and power, he wasn't blind. Merlin was attractive. Older, just as Arthur liked them. Slim and muscular. Blue eyes like the darkest waters and a pretty mouth.

The down-on-his-luck wardrobe, however, was off-putting. With a bit of spit and polish, Merlin would be absolutely _devastating_. No one would question his right to stand at Arthur's side as his Right Hand.

Perhaps also as his Consort.

Consort.

Arthur inclined his head. He could easily imagine Merlin beneath him, holding his knees up and away while Arthur fucked him relentlessly. Or perhaps above him, barely able to hold himself up while he fucked down on Arthur's cock.

He'd selected Merlin for his kingdom because he was intelligent. He was educated. He was loyal, though those loyalties needed to be redirected to more appropriate parties. He was also very powerful. He possessed all the traits that Arthur admired.

He glanced to Merlin's crotch. His belt had several additional holes and those trousers hung on too-thin hips, but the bulge was legitimate.

Merlin had quite a nice cock. The private investigator under Arthur's employ had had no qualms about taking all sorts of photographs.

Yes. Arthur smiled to himself, pleased with his choice. His smile faded when he took in just how badly injured Merlin was, and he tsked in patronizing disapproval.

"I don't condone this reckless behaviour," Arthur said, walking over to the corner of the debilitated apartment that passed as the living room. "You have so much potential, and yet you squander it on people who will never know the lengths you take to keep them safe. They'll never appreciate you the way you deserve."

 

 

 

 

 

Arthur carefully put the frozen peas on the swelling on Merlin's cheek. Merlin didn't so much as flinch in his sleep.

"Oh, darling," Arthur said with a sigh. He picked up Merlin's legs and slid them sideways on the beat-up couch. The musty knit blanket thrown over the arm didn't look to be long enough to properly drape over Merlin's body, but it did a fine job of covered up a clawed gouge in the cheap fabric.

The flat was in shambles. Most of the light bulbs were burned out. The block windows were smeared with dirt. The cement floor hadn't been swept in a dog's age, it seemed, and the only surfaces not coated with a good finger of dust hosted veritable miniature cities of empty bottles of cheap whiskey and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts.

This wouldn't do. Arthur reached in his pocket and palmed his mobile. He tapped through his extensive contacts and rang it through.

"Yes, my liege?" The voice on the other line was sleepy, but alert. There was a loud rustle of fabric, as if someone was scrambling out of bed as if preparing to genuflect.

Arthur glanced heavenward, suppressing his annoyance. George had been among the first to jump ships, quietly moving from Uther's employ to Arthur's. His loyalty and service was without fault. The permanent simper in his voice, however, grated on Arthur's nerves, and he felt his mouth curling into a snarl.

Arthur was distracted by the ward painted on the ceiling. He tilted his head in interest and glanced down; a similar ward was on the floor, an almost mirror-perfect replica. Faint magic linked the two marks, ready to feed off any supernatural who trespassed.

Arthur smiled. He'd known his Merlin was clever. Any angel or demon breaking into Merlin's domain would fall to his absolute mercy.

"My liege?" George asked, trepidation in his voice.

Arthur's pleasure in discovering that Merlin did, in fact, possess some self-preservation instincts, faded at being prompted. Still, his voice was neutral and flat when he spoke. "Good morning, George. Did I wake you?"

"No, my liege," George said. "I am yours, my liege. My life and my time are yours."

"So they are," Arthur said. He hummed thoughtfully. "I will text you an address shortly. You will wait outside until the occupant vacates the premises. When he leaves, you will clean the flat and replenish the stores. You will ensure that he does not see you and that you are not caught. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my liege," George said earnestly.

"You'll have time to do a quick shop before you come by. Assume that there are no cleaning supplies. Pick up some groceries. The usual staples. Nothing complicated." Arthur doubted that Merlin had ever made himself a decent meal in his life, but, _surely_ , he could manage a bowl of cereal or sandwiches. He glanced around and made a face. The place was a pit. "Get a first aid kit, ice packs, and…"

He checked the kitchen cupboard.

"Plates and glasses."

"Certainly, my Liege," George said.

Arthur hung up without another word. He went to the sofa and watched Merlin sleep. He knocked the magazines and empty beer bottles from the coffee table -- George would clean up -- and dragged it closer before sitting down.

Merlin had lost blood. He was bruised to the bone in several places. Possibly a broken rib or two. If not for Merlin's magic, Arthur would have taken him to the hospital. As it was, the magic was slowly healing Merlin's injuries, and it would continue to do so as long as Merlin remained unconscious, unable to suppress it.

"You're going to need to stop doing this," Arthur said with an irritated sigh. His eyes trailed over the knobby bruise on Merlin's cheekbone, the scrape along his jaw. "How am I supposed to show you off when you look like the poster child for a shelter for battered spouses?"

Given an ounce of self-care, this would never have happened. Merlin wouldn't have relied on two-bit sorcerer tricks and clumsy incantations to break up the ritual. He could have simply torn it apart with sheer force of will and it would have been over in seconds. From Arthur's observations, getting Merlin to invest in his continued survival would be the greatest challenge.

Idly, he texted George to remember to take measurements of Merlin's clothes and to bring them to Arthur's tailor.

"If you keep this up…" Arthur shook his head. "Oh, darling. What use are you to me if you're dead?"

A normal person walked away from a riot. They turned on their heel and ignored cries for help. When someone was being mugged or attacked, the average citizen would stare resolutely ahead and make certain they couldn't identify the perpetrators in a line-up.

Not Merlin. No. Never Merlin. Exorcisms of demons who had taken residence in human bodies. Cleansing of tainted places. Bounties on the heads of Angels that skirted the very fine line between God's grace and Lucifer's favour. Reining in misguided witches with ancient tomes and destructive tendencies. Merlin would step into the shite at his own life's peril without the least amount of hesitation.

Guilt was an emotion that Arthur was familiar with. Easily recognizable in even the most pure soul, Arthur could usually suss out the source after a short conversation and use it to manipulate people to his own ends. Most of the time, guilt was an annoyance that interfered with desired outcomes.

Such as with Merlin.

Arthur had yet to decide how he would approach Merlin. He suspected that playing on Merlin's conscience was not the way to go. Merlin's morals were dubious at best, he was a law unto himself, and yet…

He pushed himself beyond human endurance. Nearly everything he did was a form of self-flagellation.

Arthur scowled. Until that morning, Merlin had avoided using his magic for a decade, if not more. In Arthur's opinion, this denial was nothing more than another way to punish himself.

He had yet to uncover the reason behind Merlin's guilt and fancied that if he eliminated it, Merlin would be more amenable to his plans. Arthur would have to approach Merlin, soon. He wished that he had more information and a better plan, but if he waited any longer, he would lose Merlin -- either because Merlin was being foolish again, or because one of Arthur's enemies got to Merlin first.

Arthur's phone buzzed. He glanced at the incoming text message and frowned.

_Morgana's been meeting with local sorcerers._

Arthur hit the call button and pressed the phone to his ear. The line rang through and connected.

"Leon."

Arthur glanced at a still-unconscious Merlin and moved away to let him rest undisturbed.

"Sire," Leon answered. From his tone, Arthur could easily picture Leon bowing his head in greeting. Half-human like Arthur, the son of an angel who had fallen with Lucifer, Leon had been Arthur's companion since they were children. Lovingly solicitous to those close to him, coldly vindictive to those who would harm them, Leon was amongst the most dangerous of Arthur's entourage.

Arthur almost trusted him. Almost.

"You cannot leave such a leading message and not provide me with additional information," Arthur said.

He stood in front of the wall of windows and stared high along the horizon, watching as the shadows shifted while the sun rose higher in the sky. Merlin's flat wasn't positioned well enough to take full advantage of the bright of day, and the view was restricted to industrial chic. It wasn't terrible. Arthur liked it.

"That's all I have," Leon said, sounding as if he would rather chew glass than admit falling short in his duty. "For now."

"I'll expect a full report by the end of the day," Arthur said.

Leon had clearly been expecting that, because he made a sound of acknowledgement. "Even without knowing the outcome, surely, that they met _at all_ is telling."

Arthur hummed quietly to himself, unbothered. He'd expected Morgana would begin to take measures to counter anything Arthur would do. He wondered how he'd shown his hand. He was careful. Not even Uther knew what Arthur was doing. Either Morgana had set her pet sorcerer to scry for Arthur's each and every movement, or he had a spy among his ranks. "Yes."

"We should expand our security, add measures to protect you," Leon insisted. "These excursions of yours can't continue. You should have an escort. One of us should be with you at all times --"

Arthur's footsteps had been dogged by servants and bodyguards since he was child. His every move at the Pendragon mansion was recorded. He couldn't bloody well go to the loo without someone letting Uther know. Leon was indulgent of Arthur's innate need to break the ever-tightening noose from around his neck, but it didn't mean that it was safe for Arthur to do so.

Arthur sighed heavily.

Leon's jaw clicked shut as he picked up on Arthur's growing irritation. He let the matter drop, though Arthur imagined the need to be careful and to have an escort at all times would come up again.

"I admit, I didn't expect Morgana to engage so quickly." Arthur rubbed his forehead with the back of a finger, more in resignation than any real frustration. "Gather additional information. Prepare for any potential attacks. Do what you must as long as your methods are not untoward or apparent. Any aggressive defence would tip our hand and put our spies in danger."

"Arthur --"

"I want to draw her out so that I can put her down," Arthur said coldly. He knew what people thought about him. He was Uther Pendragon's heir, but too young to be taken seriously. Even among the cultists, he was nothing more than a mascot, to sit on the sidelines while the adults took care of all the decision-making. Morgana, his half-sister and a nephilim, saw him as nothing more than a weak, useless _human_.

Soon, he would show them all how wrong they were.

"At least allow me to send someone to you for your personal protection, even if only from afar," Leon tried.

"Leon," Arthur said, forcing an unconcerned smile in his voice. "I'm perfectly safe."

In the background, Arthur could hear the sound of an automobile engine shutting off, a car door opening and slamming shut. He heard Leon acknowledge someone before hearing a long exhale. "You're following him again, aren't you?"

Arthur glanced over his shoulder. He could only make out the tuff of black hair resting on the arm of the sofa, a blood-stained bag of frozen peas covering half of his face. "Well. If it reassures you in any way or form, I won't be following him any longer."

Leon grunted in approval. Arthur imagined that, later, Leon would be very angry with himself for not asking, _What are you going to be doing, instead?_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"You look like you took three rounds with a harpy and lost," Mordred said, acrid smoke spilling out of his mouth. He stubbed out the nub of his joint on the back of his hand and fell in step next to Merlin.

"Go away, Mordred," Merlin grunted. He shoved his hands deeper into his trench coat pockets and raised his shoulders to brace against the wind. The weather wasn't terrible, but he just didn't want to deal with Mordred.

"Of course, a harpy wouldn't be much of a challenge for someone like you," Mordred mused. "What was it, then? A possession? Those can be nasty, depending on the demon. Oh, do tell me that it was a creature feature, I haven't heard about one of those in a while."

Merlin twitched and glanced away. He contemplated crossing the street, but that would only allow him a momentary respite. Mordred would catch up and harangue him all the way to the Dragon's Den.

"If not a harpy, then perhaps a manticore? A three-headed dog from Styx? Was it a bloodthirsty nymph?" Mordred asked.

"Greek mythology? Really?" Merlin asked, shooting him a sidelong look.

"I have a craving," Mordred said with a shrug.

They walked to the end of the block, neither one of them waiting for the traffic lights to change. A car screeched to a stop, the fender brushing the fabric of Merlin's trousers, but Merlin barely looked at it.

"You do realize that if only you'd use your bloody magic, you could heal all that in no time," Mordred said, gesturing at Merlin's face. He must have seen something in Merlin's expression, because his voice took on a sharper edge. "Could have avoided it altogether, if you weren't such a fucking pillock."

Merlin's jaw clenched shut. "Don't," he hissed.

"Don't what?" Mordred asked. "Don't question your intelligence? Don't point out how much of a target you are for those who think you'd be an easy kill? Don't remark on how unhealthy it is to suppress yourself --"

Mordred avoided an oncoming pedestrian and crossed the invisible barrier of Merlin's personal space with the tell-tale signs that he was about to share what was on his mind. His expression changed, and he made a curious, questioning noise. Merlin didn't get a chance to parse what Mordred was doing until Mordred crowded into him and buried his nose in Merlin's neck.

"Oh, the delightful smell of God's might and the Devil's rage. How I've missed it," Mordred said, leaning in and sniffing. "It's invigorating. Nothing gets me harder than --"

Merlin shoved him away. Mordred caught himself before falling into oncoming traffic, a delighted laugh on his lips.

"Your guilt, however, is absolutely distasteful," Mordred said, a derisive tone in his voice. "Get over yourself. It's been ten years."

Only Mordred -- or rather, only _creatures_ like Mordred, who were inherently amoral and only pretended to understand human cultural norms -- would be so crass as to dismiss someone's loss, and fail to understand the impact guilt could have. Ten years might have passed since Will was used as a shield against Merlin's magic, but Merlin would never get past knowing that his best friend had died because of _him_. Merlin might not have been directly responsible -- that honour went to a two-bit sorceress who had pulled Will into the line of fire -- but he may as well have plunged the knife into Will's heart on purpose, considering that Will had only been there because of him.

Mordred released a huff of breath, interpreting Merlin's stony silence correctly, for a change, and didn't say another word. He pulled out his phone and tapped his way into a game, looking up only to make certain he wouldn't collide into anyone.

The air was heavy with automobile exhaust, decomposing rubbish, and sewage. A couple stumbled out of a strip joint and belched alcohol to add to the sour-sweetness of whatever drug Mordred was smoking these days. The girl stumbled into Merlin's side, straightened herself with awkward grace, and tottered on without so much as an apology. He supposed he should be grateful that she didn't throw up all over his shoes.

She was, however, about to leave with his wallet. He grabbed her before she got out of reach. "Wallet."

"Hey! Leave me alone!"

"Get your damn hands off my bird --"

Merlin glared. The big man twitched, his threat left unvoiced. Merlin didn't know what the man saw in his expression and didn't care. "Wallet," he said again.

The woman curled a lip in a silent snarl and eyed Merlin up and down as if measuring how much of a challenge he would be. Merlin didn't look any better than she did, though she was better dressed for a night of fun on the town than he was, her mousy brown hair wrapped in fabrics and bead-braided, her makeup smeared from a recent make-out, and her clothes mussed up. But he had at least a good stone on her and was wearing sensible footwear to her ankle-breaking elevator shoes, and there would be no getting away from him.

She slapped the wallet into his hand. He checked the contents -- a few pounds, his identification, a bank card, and several folded pieces of fragile tissue paper with painted sigils for instantaneous spell work, to be used sparingly -- and shoved his wallet into a different pocket, waving her off.

"You're in a pleasant mood," Mordred said.

"If I wanted running commentary on my fucking life, I'd ask for it, so shut your goddamn gob," Merlin snapped.

Mordred shrugged.

They walked through the maze of streets that was Camden's arse-end, entering an area several square blocks wide that was a black hole of reckless disregard for the law -- physical, natural, or criminal. Mordred hummed a distraction spell to keep anyone from following them while simultaneously tapping at balloons on his phone screen. Merlin closed his coat against the wind and hung his head, staring at the cracks in the pavement, and did his resolute best not to _think_.

He just wanted a drink. The last twenty-four hours had been nothing more than a fuck-up of epic proportions, starting from the minute he'd glanced at the soapy dish water in the sink and caught a glimpse of the incoming demon and ending the moment he'd woken up on his sofa, a thawed bag of peas on his face, with no recollection of how he'd gotten there.

The lingering magic-hangover and physical soreness went far in granting him respite from all the questions floating through his head. How had he gotten home that morning? How had he managed to get his boots off? Why was his flat suddenly pristine, as if he was getting ready to sell it in a real estate showing?

Who the fuck had filled his refrigerator with ready meals?

Merlin spent hours cleansing himself in case some _thing_ had piggybacked its way into his home and through the wards. He'd fumigated the flat with sacred ashes and bloodstone incense, but had found nothing out of the ordinary in the clean-up. Some _one_ or some _thing_ had made it past his wards undetected, had performed wanton acts of Good Samaritanism that left Merlin feeling dirty and uncomfortable, and had left without any indication or trace. If not for the knowledge that he had many enemies around the world, nerves wouldn't be so rattled. He'd actually prefer if his flat had been haunted by a demon from one of the lower planes.

He didn't like not knowing what was going on.

The bouncer at the door of Kilgharrah's bar was a good foot taller than Merlin, easily twice as wide, and as unpleasant as they came. He made them wait a full minute before pulling a card out of his pocket and making a show of glancing at it.

"Bird shitting in a bed," Mordred said.

The bouncer flashed the card at Mordred, showing a crude drawing of a naked woman fucking herself on a dildo before flicking it into a nearby rubbish bin. He stepped aside to let Mordred through, pulled out a second card, and held it up for Merlin.

"Your mother in that bed fucking the bird," Merlin said, not even bothering to _Look_. The bouncer was new and must not have been warned about Merlin if Merlin was being screened for magic before being allowed through. Merlin moved forward, only to be stopped by a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Invitation only," the bouncer said, the standard explanation for the normal people trying to get in.

"Since when?" Mordred asked, curious.

Merlin stared down at the hand for several long moments before following it back to the bouncer's dead black eyes. His voice dropped in pitch. "Does your bloody hand on _fire_ qualify as an invitation?"

The bouncer's expression remained impassive. He flipped the card around.

In extravagant calligraphic script was a message. _Go away, Merlin._

Merlin set the card on fire.

The bouncer dropped the card with a startled grunt, shaking out his burned fingers. The fire spread to the other password cards in the rubbish bin, filling the little alcove with blue-grey smoke. The bouncer turned away to grab the fire extinguisher stashed just inside the doorway.

 

 

 

 

Merlin shouldered his way into the club, ignoring Mordred's admiring grin.

"I could be persuaded to overlook the undertones of guilt. _Angry_ is such a sexy look on you," Mordred said, smirking. Merlin glared. The music was too loud to waste breath on a rejoinder, but Mordred apparently didn't think so. He leaned in, nudging Merlin's ribs, and leered. "I'm up for a fuck in the back room if you want to mellow out."

Merlin gave Mordred a bland glare.

Curly brown hair framing a cherubic face. Long eyelashes and eyes the colour of Venus crystals. Pouty lips perpetually swollen, as if he had no other pastime beyond sucking cock or licking cunt.

For Mordred, the pleasures of the flesh wasn't a hobby. It was a hunting tactic to keep him fed. He wasn't _Up for a fuck_. He was _Always up for a fuck_.

Merlin might not have gotten laid in years, but he wasn't so far gone that he'd sleep with an _incubus_ , even one he considered an acquaintance, however dubiously. Merlin had seen the aftermath of an incubus' feeding. The victims were corpses afterward -- desiccated husks, sunken eyes, bones sticking out through the skin. Survivors often never recovered, spending their lives fighting, or giving in to some sort of sex addiction.

As a sorcerer, Merlin had natural immunity to the side effects of a sex demon's power, but that didn't mean he wanted to stick his dick in Mordred's arse. What he wanted -- what he _craved_ \-- involved a permanency, intimacy and stability that he couldn't possibly have, not with the way he lived his life.

Mordred knew that, too. He licked the air as if savouring Merlin's low-grade sexual frustration, his mouth stretching in a wide smirk. He tilted his head in easy acquiescence and let himself be swallowed into the crowd in search for willing prey.

Merlin went to the bar.

Freya slammed a long-neck of local microbrew in front of Merlin, clawed fingers grabbing his wrist before he could reach for it. "Kilgharrah wants to talk to you."

"Hello, kitten. Nice to see you too. It's been too long. How's your new flatmate working out?" Merlin asked, taking the beer with his free hand. He raised it in greeting, took a sip, and grimaced. The brew was on the bitter side, too many hops overwhelming chocolate and cherry overtones, and the aftertaste put Merlin in search for the nearest bowl of stale peanuts and pretzels.

"If she doesn't stop washing her undies in the bloody kitchen sink, she won't last the month," Freya said. Her hold on Merlin's arm tightened. "You shouldn't be here. Go home."

Merlin gestured with the beer bottle toward the entrance of the bar and drank it quickly, hoping to wash away the lingering slime on his tongue. "That was your doing, then?"

"'Course it was. Nothing, _absolutely nothing_ good comes when Kilgharrah wants to talk to you. Not for you, anyway," Freya said, squeezing hard enough to leave a bruise before letting him go. She picked up a stained towel and wiped down the bar with more aggression than necessary. "Drink your beer and go the fuck home."

"Nice to feel wanted," Merlin said, bowing his head over his beer. He rubbed the back of his neck and didn't react when Freya scratched through his hair.

"You're not up for whatever Kilgharrah has in mind," Freya said.

Merlin snorted. That was the understatement of the year. He was never up for whatever Kilgharrah had in mind, but at the same time, it bothered him that Freya would doubt his ability to deal with it. "How would you know? I've handled --"

"Because you look like a strong wind would flatten you," Freya growled, showing teeth. "If you were at your peak, I'd let you deal with the old coot --"

"He signs your paychecks," Merlin said, amused.

"-- but you haven't been at your peak in a really fucking long time, and I'd rather not lose any more friends. Go home," Freya said firmly. She took the unfinished beer out of his hand. "Beer's on the house."

Merlin leaned back, scratching the side of his neck. He studied the crease in Freya's brow, the tight set of her mouth, the flicker of green-and-yellow in her eyes. The anxiety was easy enough to spot. He stood up, hating the relief that crept into her expression, because he knew he was going to disappoint her in a few minutes. "You don't have any friends."

"Fuck you," Freya said with a laugh. She tilted her head into his palm when he touched her cheek in apology.

Merlin walked away from the bar and toward the rear. The door to Kilgharrah's office opened for him -- a courtesy that the old Dragon had never offered him before. Merlin hesitated, because the gesture could mean that Kilgharrah wanted a favour from him, or because --

A short burst of energy, like a light switch flicking on and off, jerked him to a stop. Jerked _everyone_ to a stop. In mid-sip. Mid-walk. Mid-grope. Power, pure and unadulterated, like magical manna dropping from Heaven flooded the club in a tsunami wave. Merlin felt like he'd taken one hit too many of peyote while inhaling distillate of hallucinogenic toads.

The ground shook. It jerked and jarred. The music turned to static. The flip-hiccup of a record scratch, the crumble of tape tearing through the rollers. The screech of an FM broadcast gone wrong.

Lights flickered. Bottles rattled. Several fragile glasses vibrated off the edge of patron tables and crashed on the dance floors.

A tall brunette with ebony skin and green-in-black eyes released a high-pitched siren's scream of terror. Freya's claws came out and she gouged the bar before she lost balance and was thrown to the ground. Mordred remained on a scattered dance floor, his eyes burning lavender as he expended power to keep himself upright like the graceful bastard that he was.

The door to Kilgharrah's cavern drifted shut, but slowly, as if an invisible hand pushed against a resisting force. The door clicked shut ominously --

And the world stopped shaking. The rush of power dissipated. The magically-inclined patrons in the club sat down warily, straightening upturned bottles and drinks, bowing their heads and avoiding eye contact.

Merlin turned on his heel, heading toward the exit. Whatever Kilgharrah wanted, it could wait.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Arthur's vision pinked around the edges.

As a child, Arthur was doted upon by a steady stream of devout and devoted nannies who never stayed long enough for an attachment to form. Sometimes, those nannies left of their own accord, shaken to their core by Arthur's blatant use of power whenever he didn't get his own way.

Uther hired tutors to teach Arthur control so that he wouldn't scare his nannies anymore, but even those shied from him. But not Catriona. Catriona had used psychological manipulation and hypnotism to control him, but when they failed, she resorted to physical punishment . It was laughable that anyone would believe petty human tricks sufficient to control someone with Arthur's lineage, but it had worked for years until Arthur broke each and every chain holding him back.

Starting with Catriona. No one could prove Arthur had forcibly drowned her. He'd been quietly doing his homework in his room, and not watching her as she flailed helplessly in the pool.

As far as Uther was aware, Arthur was still very much susceptible to suggestion and would obey the keyword triggers exactly as he had been _trained_ to do. As if he were nothing but a dog bred for one and only one purpose -- to serve its master.

In public, Arthur might play the role of an obedient puppy, but he had no master. Catriona's mind-fuckery might have forced a too-young Arthur to impose self-discipline and control above and beyond what any other child that age would ever need, but it was Arthur alone who possessed control of himself.

Not some two-bit hack psychologist with a boorish manner and a gross, troll-like personality. Not the nannies who showered him with mocking praise and false affection in the hopes of creating an unbreakable connection with him for the favour they would gain from him in the future. And certainly not Uther, who had stared down the long dinner table and asked whether Arthur would be " _staying in that night._ "

 _"Of course, father. What else would I do?"_ , Arthur had said, smiling over his glass of wine.

_"I thought you might have plans with your… friend. What was his name again? Leo?"_

_"You've made it clear that you believe him to be a bad influence,"_ Arthur had said, not bothering to correct Uther. The disdain and disapproval Uther had toward Leon was in large part because Leon's mother was an overworked waitress at a run-down diner on the outskirts of town, knocked up at fifteen by a drifter who'd been passing through. Leon had three strikes against him -- his mother was uneducated, his mother was not a believer, and Leon was a no-good punk with no ambitions and no prospects.

Arthur always wondered how furious Uther would be if he discovered that the no-good punk was a nephilim helping Arthur undermine Uther's entire empire.

_"He's holding you back. Cenred would be a much better friend for you."_

_"If you say so, father. He's certainly keen to suck my cock,"_ Arthur had said. He'd pushed away from the dinner table and stood up to take advantage of Uther's splutter. _"If that's all, I have homework to do."_

Arthur's iron control was the only reason Uther wasn't a stain on a wall somewhere. But it was that same unyielding discipline that made it very difficult to enact the next step in Arthur's plans.

Arthur grimaced as he rose to his feet on shaky legs. He savoured the iron taste of his own blood in his mouth. His hand was wet where it was pressed to his side where he'd collided with the sharp edge of a rubbish bin, rust and metal cutting through shirt and skin.

"Again," he said. The command came out in a reedy pitch.

Leon threw out a hand to stop Percival. "That's enough, Arthur."

Arthur's eyes narrowed at the defiance. A furrow of displeasure pinched his brow. Leon paled and swallowed hard, and he hastily dropped his arm. He stepped back and looked away.

So fixed was Arthur's attention on Leon that he wasn't prepared for Percival's blow. He was knocked to the ground, blacking out.

 

 

 

 

It couldn't have been for more than a few seconds, but he could manage a great deal of self-defensive destruction in a few seconds. His vision bled red when he opened his eyes. The pavement cracked and split open as the earth shook. Percival flew through the air as if struck, crashing into a large pile of debris and refuse. Leon was driven to his knees, shuddering and quailing.

 _Now_ , it was enough. Merlin would have sensed the disruption. He wouldn't be able to help himself. He would come to investigate.

The lure was set. All that was left to do was to wait.

Arthur reined in his power. Just enough that it didn't try to bring the buildings down around them. Just enough that his men would be able to get up and leave. They had their orders. People to find. False rumours to spread. Evidence to plant.

Percival struggled to get out of the rubbish, a disgruntled frown on his brow as he brushed a rotting banana peel from his shoulder and kicked an empty coffee container out of his way. Leon approached Arthur, but he froze as if slapped at Arthur's nearly soundless, " _Go_."

Leon hesitated before nodding jerkily. "Yes. Of course. Sire."

His bow of obeisance was curt and unsure. He gestured rudely at Percival to follow. They spared a minute to ensure they didn't leave anything of themselves behind, drawing their essence away. The traces that remained would be enough to push Merlin in the right direction.

Arthur watched them go. He grunted as his body fought to heal him. He allowed nothing, because his wounds needed to match the blood on his clothes. If they didn't, Merlin would be suspicious, and Arthur would lose him before he had him.

He waited, consciousness skirting in and out in a teasing dance. Random surges of adrenaline kept him awake in exquisite awareness of the danger he was in from his enemies and the vulnerability of his continued survival. Trust wasn't an action or an emotion that he was capable of, and yet, here he was, trusting that Merlin would come.

The instinctive, uncontrolled burst of power would be enough to attract Merlin -- but it would also attract others. Arthur's enemies, curious looky-loos, scavenging sorcerers, even the perfectly normal homeless person who only wanted better shoes, warmer clothes, and a few pounds. Arthur might _appear_ terribly injured, but he could defend himself if someone who wasn't Merlin arrived.

He wasn't worried. If anything, his biggest concern was whether Merlin would save him.

There was no guarantee that Merlin would actually _help_. He was known for being a callous bastard and ignoring his friends in their times of need. There were stories where Merlin had walked over the smoking corpse of his closest colleague to pursue his enemy instead, leaving the body for the animals -- though Arthur didn't believe them. At the moment, Arthur was nothing more than a complete stranger to Merlin.

Merlin would have absolutely no motivation to do much more than to drop Arthur off at the nearest hospital. Arthur's only hope was that Merlin was reeling from how someone had saved _him_ and that he would be motivated to pass it on.

Human compassion was a wonderful thing to manipulate.

Arthur closed his eyes. He listened to the sounds of rats foraging in the nearby rubbish bin. The birds cawing and fluttering their wings up on the rooftops. Cats meowing, hissing, snarling from somewhere deeper into the alley. Further off, he heard diffuse chatter of pedestrians walking by, words drowned out by the rumbling sound of car engines in need of a tune-up, tyres screeching on the pavement.

And then: footsteps. They fell at the same steady beat of a racing heartbeat and were chased by the flutter of fabric and the slap of leather against thigh.

Arthur allowed himself a small smile.

The footsteps skidded to a stop. Panting sounds were silenced as the arrival held their breath and…

A low, guttural phrase that was more in keeping with a hobbyist witch than a sorcerer of Merlin's sheer power jarred the alley with a thunder _snap_ of energy that couldn't originate from anyone but Merlin. Arthur held back a huff of displeasure to learn that Merlin had resorted to suppressing his natural magic and cracked his eyes open.

A blanket of magic saturated the alley with a vindictive violence that was strangely soothing, even reassuring. The alley was bright with falling stars, blue-white lines perpendicular to the architecture and doubled semi-circles filled with cryptic symbols that weren't recognizable, not even upside down. As Arthur watched, the magic attacked the remnants of the angelic essence left behind by the nephilim.

Pale bright white blue turned bloody red, dark and dire, full of promise of complete destruction.

The red spread, taking over the blue lines. The alley filled with a dark, dreary glow, heavy and foreboding. The world stuttered, jerking into position even as it was wrenched out of itself, righting the magic saturating the area.

Arthur was no magic user. He possessed working knowledge of basic rites and rituals only as a preventive measure for his own continued survival. His power was fed from a different source and followed an entirely different set of esoteric rules. But he knew Merlin. It was easy enough to deduce what Merlin was doing and what he was about to do.

Merlin was going to step over Arthur's fallen body and pursue his enemy with the icy-cold single-mindedness that he was known for. Arthur could not, absolutely _could not_ allow Merlin to wildly run off as if he were an avenging caped crusader.

He needed Merlin to focus his energies elsewhere.

On him.

Arthur groaned out loud, pretending to rouse himself to full consciousness.

Merlin's spell work twitched, distracted.

Arthur groaned again, more theatrical this time. Louder. He rolled onto his side. The gasp of pain from the line of bruises on his ribs and the dull ache in his kidneys was very, very real.

A _shimmer_ in the air, a strangled huff of annoyance, and --

The red bled out of the air, fading into the darkness. Footsteps approached with slow caution, and a presence crouched down next to Arthur.

Tentative hands touched Arthur's shoulder. Pulled him. Guided him onto his back.

In the headlight flare of a passing car, Arthur saw Merlin's drawn face, pale and bruised despite his magic having risen up to heal him that morning. His hair was flat on one side, spiky-curly in the other in a modern fashion better known as _Didn't bother_ , and his brows were pinched in confusion.

He seemed to sink into himself, moving from going to a crouch to leaning on his side. He brushed fingers across his forehead, fingertips trailing along a lingering scrape along his jaw. Arthur followed the movement with thin-slit eyes, and wondered what it would be like to feel Merlin's fingers on his skin.

With a heavy sigh, Merlin snapped to himself and ran his hands lightly over Arthur's body, checking for injuries. The contact was fleeting, and Arthur mourned that he wasn't in any condition to enjoy it.

Merlin patted Arthur's cheek. Arthur winced. That was the side Percival had struck.

"Mate, you all right?"

Arthur barked a sharp laugh that pulled at the cut on his chest. "I've had better days."

"How bad is it?"

Arthur didn't answer right away. He turned onto his good side, pushing himself into a sitting position. Merlin helped him to his feet. "I'm fine," he said roughly.

"You're bleeding," Merlin said, pulling his hands away to stare at them, seemingly oddly fascinated by the smear of blood on his palms. Arthur wavered, and was satisfied when Merlin wrapped an arm around his waist to support him. "I'll call an ambulance."

"Do they even come to this part of town?" Arthur scoffed. City services efficiency analysis reports claimed responder time as nearly twenty to thirty minutes in the back roads of Camden. If Arthur hadn't been blessed with the ability to control his body, to cure himself from the worst of the damage, he would have lain in the alley and died before the ambulance came, if anyone noticed him in the first place and cared enough to call for one.

Merlin swore. He pulled Arthur's arm over his shoulders and guided him to the mouth of the alley. There weren't many pedestrians on the street at this time of night, but those who passed by either ignored them or stared at Arthur with predatory hunger. "I'll flag a cab. There'll be a few by the club."

Arthur didn't speak, too preoccupied with the pain shooting through his body at every movement. If this was how the average human suffered on a daily basis, he wanted none of it. The temptation to heal himself was more difficult to ignore as Merlin dragged him across the street, but he reminded himself that he was the son of the Morningstar. If anyone should be able to resist temptation, it would be him.

He was barely aware of being manhandled into the back of a cab, but he snapped to himself, preternaturally aware, when Merlin shut the passenger door and walked to the front to talk to the driver. "Take him to the hospital."

"No," Arthur hissed. No, Merlin wasn't going to leave him. No, Merlin was not going to chase down the planted trail until Arthur was ready to set the next stage of his plans in motion. No, this wouldn't do. "No hospitals."

Merlin's heavy sigh preceded a tired rub of his face. He dropped his hand. Arthur couldn't see clearly through the fingerprint-smeared Plexiglas separator, but he thought Merlin was arguing with himself just under his breath. "Look, mate, you've been done in. You need the experts to see you're not hurt worse than you look."

"No hospitals," Arthur insisted. Merlin spread his hands in entreaty, but Arthur shook his head, gritting his teeth when his head rang like hammers on a bell. Arthur snapped, "Don't be an idiot. They'll find me there."

"They'll find you there," Merlin repeated, his tone flat. He glanced to the open mouth of the alley before slowly turning to look at the other end, eyes flinty cold as if he expected the enemy to attack. Tension filled the air, and it took a moment for Arthur to realize that it came from Merlin.

He was primed to kill, a weapon locked and loaded.

Arthur would have laughed with glee to know that Merlin had a dark streak as wide as his own, because whom else would take the opportunity to use a poor, injured fellow as _bait_? That, however, wasn't the goal of this evening's show. Arthur knocked the Plexiglas with a bloody finger and gave the address to one of his more secure flats in the city. "Take me home."

"Are you going to die in my cab?" the driver asked, glancing over his shoulder dubiously.

"Maybe," Arthur said. "Don't worry. The doorman will give you a tip."

"And a clean-up charge," the driver bargained.

"And a clean-up charge," Arthur agreed easily, rolling onto his back. It was much easier to breathe that way. He wondered if Percival had broken a rib. "Just drive, already. I'm done with tonight."

"You're the boss," the driver said, resetting the fare meter.

"Wait," Merlin said. The front passenger door cracked open and he slid in. There was an exchange of glances with the driver, and Merlin said, "Didn't you hear him? Drive."

A soft smile pulled at Arthur's mouth for the entire ride home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Merlin didn't know what he was doing.

He shouldn't have gotten into the cab. He should have dropped _Arthur_ bloody _Pendragon_ off with the doorman. There had been no need to carry Arthur through the posh glass doors, into the elevator that rode directly to the top, and over the threshold of a penthouse that likely cost more than Merlin's lifetime net worth.

And yet, here he was, in the master en-suite bathroom, swatting the prat's hands away before he mucked up the dressings that Merlin had already put on. "Will you stop fidgeting?"

"Will you stop _mothering_?"

"I didn't have to come. I can walk out. I'm going to walk out," Merlin threatened, getting up. He tossed the antiseptic and the gauze into the sink. He wiped his hands on a towel, flung it in the sink, and started for the door. Arthur's mouth clamped shut, his eyes downcast in a slump of apology, and the change in attitude brought Merlin to a stop. The heir to the Pendragon fortune didn't strike Merlin as the type to capitulate so easily.

With a sigh, Merlin reached for a new piece of gauze and surgical tape. He knelt next to Arthur again. He placed the last piece with deliberate detachment, not allowing either his touch or his eyes to wander.

It was too late for that, he knew. Mordred had put the idea in Merlin's head earlier that evening. The blunt reminder that he hadn't had any kind of companionship in some time was easier to ignore when there weren't any prospective candidates on the horizon. His libido didn't seem to care that he was single by choice and circumstance when he was this close to a handsome, young, _shirtless_ man. Arthur had a body that deserved more than a casual grope and a lecherous once-over.

It was worth _worshipping_.

Merlin swallowed hard and pulled his hands away. Arthur was young. Merlin didn't know how young Arthur was, but his best guess was somewhere in his mid-to-late teens. Merlin stood up abruptly. "There. You're all right."

"If you say so," Arthur said, a curious, neutral tone to his voice. Merlin glanced up, trying to read him, but Arthur shifted away. He thought about glancing at Arthur's aura, but that was considered rude in magical circles, and more so when the other person didn't know about magic. Merlin wasn't that much of a pillock.

Still, as long as Arthur's back was turned, Merlin allowed himself to look. At the broad shoulders, the tapered waist, the solid muscle under smooth skin. Arthur's arse defied definition, though _perfection_ was likely an acceptable descriptive, and --

Arthur turned around. A smirk curled at the corner of his mouth when Merlin's gaze snapped up. Merlin grunted and shoved the bandage debris from the sink and into the bin. When he ran out of things to fuss over, he closed his eyes and scratched the back of his head.

"I should --"

"Stay for coffee," Arthur said, brusque.

Arthur watched him out of the corner of his eye, blue bright against golden lashes, hair in disarray. He shook out a jumper, but paused to put it on, waiting for Merlin to answer.

"I should go," Merlin said, emphasizing the last word, using it as a compulsion to force himself to turn around and leave. The little, self-satisfied smile, the quick invitation, the flirtatious look. Merlin had a fairly good idea of where this was going, and…

No. Just, no.

"I've gotten a fair hit to the head. I might have a concussion," Arthur said, his tone light. Merlin thought he saw Arthur shrug a shoulder before gingerly pulling the jumper over his head, but he wasn't sure, too distracted by the glimpse of a muscular chest to think clearly. "Someone should keep an eye on me. Isn't that what they say to do?"

"Don't you have family you can call?"

"I suppose I can call my father. What time is it in Australia?" Arthur asked. He made a show of glancing at his wrist, the unexpectedly understated Tag Hauer watch catching the overhead lights. Somehow, Merlin thought a Pendragon would go for the ostentatious -- a flashy Rolex, maybe a bejewelled Cartier. Still, the Tag Hauer watch was expensive enough that if the attack in the alley had been a mere mugging, it would have been long gone. "He's likely in a teleconference with one of his overseas managers. In any case, it doesn't matter. He's never been the nurturing sort."

"Don't you have siblings?" Merlin asked.

Arthur raised his chin, pursing his lips in consideration. "A half-sister who would sooner see me dead than lift a finger to help me."

Merlin couldn't decide if Arthur was joking or not. He didn't have any siblings and his mother had passed a long time ago; there had never been any sign of his father. Familial relationships were something alien to him, but he at least knew that sometimes, relatives had difficult relationships. The topic of Arthur's sister seemed to be a sensitive one, so he dropped it.

"What about friends?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow and snorted. "No."

"Bodyguards?"

"Gave them the night off," Arthur said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He leaned over the bathroom sink, getting closer to the mirror to inspect the bruise along his jaw. It was turning an interesting shade of purple. "Why else would I have been in Camden by myself? They'd never let me get anywhere near that area otherwise."

"You're a sorry sod, aren't you?" Merlin asked. "Call a nursing service. You've got the money for it."

Arthur didn't move away from the mirror, glancing at Merlin in the reflection. "Are you normally this thick?"

"What?" Merlin asked, frowning.

"Oh, just _stay_." Arthur huffed. He rolled his eyes. "Do I have to spell it out for you? You saved my life. I'm trying to thank you."

"With coffee?"

"However I can," Arthur said. He gave Merlin a wry grin. His voice softened. "I thought I'd start with coffee." When Merlin only stared at him, Arthur pressed, "We can Netflix a movie. Order take away. Talk. Get to know each other."

Merlin hesitated. He should leave. He had already stayed too long. The more time passed, the more the trace of angelic essence would fade from the alley, making it too difficult to track down. There were supernatural creatures out there preying on innocent humans, on a rich, entitled, _stupid_ teenager who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Merlin couldn't let them get away with it. They might kill someone. They'd nearly killed Arthur.

There was an earnest, open look in Arthur's eyes. An invitation in the way he leaned against the bathroom counter, hip canted, shoulders back.

He could only imagine why someone like Arthur needed to ditch the bodyguards to come to Camden. Why a handsome boy would go to Camden at all. But then --

The white patches of gauze, the string of darkening bruises marring otherwise golden skin.

For a moment, Merlin couldn't see the injuries. His eyes traced the solid curve of muscle, the broad line of his shoulders, the tuff of light blond hair in a soft line leading to the waistband of tailored trousers.

Merlin forced himself to look away. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"But --"

Merlin shook his head and walked out of the bathroom. He lingered in front of the ceiling-to-floor window with the scintillating view of the Thames reflecting the city lights at night. Imagination easily placed a naked Arthur in the middle of the King-sized bed, the plush grey-blue comforter down around his hips, pillows sprawled to one side or shoved to the floor.

Arthur followed him out of the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe. The steady, measuring gaze chased Merlin out and down the stairs of the loft penthouse. He snatched his coat from where he'd thrown it over the back of a kitchen chair, and headed toward the door.

 

 

 

 

"It's me, isn't it?" Arthur asked.

Merlin spared him a quick glance. Arthur descended the staircase with the unhurried glide of a predator fixed on his prey, all sign of amusement gone. Merlin growled to himself -- _Get your fucking priorities straight_ \-- and reached for the doorknob.

"Is it because of my father? Because I'm a _Pendragon_?" Arthur paused. His tone took on a hard, annoyed edge. "Is it because you think I'm too young?"

Merlin clenched his jaw. It wasn't his job to hunt down rogue angels and punish them for their transgressions, but no one else would do it. He had to go. Lusting after someone who was easily ten years -- or more -- younger than he was? He needed to focus, and his attention had to be somewhere other than in his pants or in Arthur's.

He turned the doorknob and opened it wide. "Lock the door behind me. Set your alarm. Call a nursing service."

"Will I see you again?"

Arthur's voice was suddenly very soft, vulnerable. When Merlin looked back, Arthur was wavering, his legs unsteady, and he hung onto the decorative bannister with a white-knuckled grip.

Instinct pushed Merlin to shut the door, to catch Arthur before he fell, to make sure that he would be all right for the rest of the night, in case he had a concussion or worse, and needed a hospital.

Instead, he stepped through the doorway and warned, "Forget you ever met me. Don't go to Camden again."

He didn't look back. He didn't want to see the hurt flashing in Arthur's eyes.

 

* * *

 

The man behind the security desk in the lobby of the apartment building gave Merlin a flinty look as he walked off the elevator. Merlin didn't stay for pleasantries, striding across the polished stone floor and through the glass doors, confident that the small charm stitched into his coat would keep his face from being recorded on video. Whatever suspicions were going through the security guard's head, Merlin hoped that at least one of them would drive him to call Arthur's security.

No cabs were in sight, and short of a playboy or cougar returning home in the wee hours of the night, the odds were slim that Merlin would be able to flag one down unless he made his way to the busier corners in the area. He fished a cigarette from a crumpled pack in his pocket, lit it with a match that flared bright blue when struck, and blew out a trail of smoke.

"Jesus," Merlin muttered, running a hand through his hair. A light drizzle fell, flattening it down.

 

 

 

 

Arthur was…

Handsome, well-connected, rich. He was also more trouble than necessary and an indulgence that Merlin couldn't afford.

Best to put all thoughts of Arthur out of his head. Merlin had other things to focus on. The recent rise in supernatural activity. How he'd managed to drag his corpse home that morning. The housekeeper he seemed to have acquired along the way and who had best not ask for a salary, because Merlin could barely keep himself fed some days. Whatever it was that Kilgharrah wanted to talk to Merlin about. The bug that had crawled up Freya's arse. The angels who had attacked a random, innocent Londoner for what amounted to nothing more than a roughing up.

Merlin slowed down and came to a stop at the intersection. There was no traffic, but he stayed where he was, frozen with the realization that he'd skipped over something important.

The pulse of power. He'd forgotten that. He wouldn't have known that a complete stranger was being attacked by angels a block and a half over if he hadn't been drawn there in the first place. _Power_ had drawn him there. He'd never felt anything like it before, but where had it come from?

Not the angels, that was for sure. Angels didn't have that kind of power. The sheer abundance of it was so far above their pay grade that an angel would weep to be in its presence. It wasn't natural magic, either; that had a different taste altogether. And no sorcerers rated that much without burning themselves out. Merlin had never met anyone who matched him in sheer strength. So --

So.

What did that mean?

Merlin's brow furrowed. He turned on his heel and looked back the way he came, but again, he didn't move. There were more questions than answers. Who --

Arthur, obviously. Demons were more likely to attack the unsuspecting who took shortcuts through a back alley to reach their destination. Angels were far too high-brow to stoop to such low measures. Merlin knew with certainty that there had been angels in the alley, but they wouldn't push up their sleeves and get their hands dirty, not like this.

They'd attacked Arthur because of Arthur's power. Except…

Arthur was human.

Wasn't he?

And even then, someone with that much sheer _strength_ wouldn't be easy for the angels to subdue. Not unless they were ambushed, and even then, there would have been more of a fight. Merlin wouldn't have found Arthur drifting in and out of consciousness in between rubbish bins. The only plausible explanation was that Arthur didn't know about his own power and that he'd never been trained in its use.

A flicker of shadow distracted Merlin from his thoughts. The shadow was roughly human-shaped and hiding at least half a block away, the darkness between two streetlights providing additional cover. Merlin took a long pull of his cigarette, flicked away the nub, and blew the smoke from his lungs in a long, drawn-out exhalation.

He continued on his way, meandering along at the same speed. A flick of the collar stopped the drizzling rain from dripping down the back of his neck. He shoved his hands deep in his coat pockets helped retain what little body heat the wet wind hadn't already dampened, and behind him, someone splashed in a puddle, clearly intent on catching up.

A St. Andrew's cross. A sliver of gallows' wood. Preserved salamander skin that was warm to the touch. The round medallion of St Joseph, patron saint of travellers. A bent penny. The sharp edge of the Star of Bethlehem.

Merlin's pockets were always stuffed full of minor charms, enchanted objects, and natural wards against evil. On earth, there were few objects capable of smiting the hosts of Heaven and Hell, but Merlin had made it his business to know everything that could bring those arrogant sons of bitches to their knees. Once upon a time, he'd even been proficient at it.

The latest rumours surrounding Merlin might imply that he was burnt-out and washed-up. That he didn't have any magic to speak of and wasn't a danger to anyone anymore. The rumour was that any two-bit schmuck capable of igniting a mage-light could sneak up on him and take him out.

At least three demons and one angel had discovered that the theory was easier than the practice.

"You're not stupid," Merlin said in a conversational tone. The footsteps behind him stuttered at having been caught out, but after a moment, continued to approach. "You know who I am. You knew who I was as soon as I left the building. Right now, you're doing the math. Calculating the odds. You're trying to decide if the bounty on my head is worth it."

Merlin crossed another intersection. One more block past this one, a slow but steady trickle of traffic streamed through. There were even a few cabs.

"Trust me. It's not worth it, not for you," Merlin said, slowing down. He didn't want to bring any confrontation where innocents could get hurt, and he didn't want to give his stalker any ammunition to use against him. "It's really not. But if you want to try… Be my guest."

He came to a stop. He turned on his heel.

The nephilim was tall, slim, and fit, as were most of his kind. The half-angel froze in mid-stride, his eyes wide and open, his shoulders down and stooped, as if he were trying to make himself very, very small. He stood straighter under Merlin's scrutiny, his human eyes bleeding into demonic black, and a shimmer of insubstantial angel wings glittered in the night air.

"But before you do, I want to make something very, very clear," Merlin said, his voice dropping an octave. "If anyone comes after Arthur Pendragon, I'm going to kill them."

A broad smile that might as well have been full of sharp, thin needles huffed a scornful laugh.

"Go on," Merlin said, making a shooing motion with his hand while he removed a hard, pyramidal shape from his pocket. "I'll give you a few minutes to decide. Call your friends. Tell them what I said. Make sure they understand. Oh -- and while you're at it, let them know what you want on your tombstone."

The nasal laugh became a snarl. The nephilim lunged.

Merlin flung the Star of Bethlehem at the nephilim and threw up his arm to protect his eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Arthur checked his tie in the bathroom mirror. He leaned in and rubbed at the flaking skin along his jaw where the scrape from Percival's punch had healed. With one last tousle of his hair and another glance to make certain he was presentable, Arthur went to the bedroom, pulling his suit coat from the hanger.

He spared a few seconds to appreciate the view. The penthouse loft overlooked the Thames, but the river didn't hold his interest on this particular morning. He scanned past the dark clouds and dour cityscape until he spotted what he was looking for.

Scorch marks.

The suite was too high up and the angle was wrong, but there was no missing the searing black ash from a white-hot light burned into the side of a tall brick building. That same scorch had continued on into an arc that had melted the mirrored glass of an art nouveau business complex next to it. It appeared that the building management had found a crew willing and able to repair and replace the panels on such short notice.

Arthur rather liked being able to see evidence of Merlin's declaration. It would be such a shame when it was gone.

 _"I only caught the tail end of the fight. Ducked out of sight before anyone caught me,"_ Leon had said, laughing with a mixture of fearful disbelief and righteous indignation. _"But he told Morgana's flunky that if anyone hurts you, they have to answer to him."_

Arthur smiled.

All had been quiet on the enemy front since Merlin's threat. Whether Merlin had meant to announce his alliance or not -- whether he was aware of having taken sides -- no one could miss that Merlin's loyalties were with Arthur. Leon's spies confirmed that Morgana was regrouping and reassessing. She must have anticipated Arthur would recruit a sorcerer to his side, but she must not have expected someone of Merlin's disreputable history. She must have laughed when she heard, but Merlin's clear display of power meant that Morgana now knew how badly she had misjudged Arthur.

The buzzer rang. Arthur headed to the main floor and picked up the hand piece.

"Your car is here, Mr Pendragon," Thompson, the day security guard, said.

"Thank you," Arthur said, hanging up without giving Thompson a chance to say anything else. He turned off the telly, plucked his cell phone from the kitchen charger, and inspected himself in the reflection on the kettle, counting down. The buzzer rang again, and Arthur knew it was Thompson again, checking up on him. He didn't bother answering.

When he emerged from the elevator, it was to hear Thompson announce, "Oh, never mind, sir. Here he is now. Yes, sir. I'll pass on the message."

Arthur breezed past.

"Mr Pendragon, your father --"

Arthur nodded cordially to the doorman, who rushed past Arthur to open the rear door of a black sedan. Arthur slipped him twenty pounds to distract Thompson. Higgs was an unshakeably agnostic young man whose only goal in life was to achieve glory in the mixed martial arts ring. It was a goal Arthur quietly encouraged in exchange for assistance in situations such as these.

Thompson backed off immediately when Higgs blocked the way, giving Arthur a chance to settle in the back seat.

Gwaine draped an arm along the open partition and pointed at Thompson. "I see Uther's being overbearing again. Shall we see the sights?"

"Not today. Let's be on time for a change."

"Right-o," Gwaine said. He pulled into traffic without another word, leaving the partition down. Uther would be scandalized to learn that Arthur fraternized with an uneducated _driver_ , but Arthur was certain his father would have a coronary to realize just how many people around Arthur were not actually working for Uther -- and that they weren't actually _human_.

Arthur sighed. Uther was, at present, an unfortunate necessity, but not one that Arthur would have to bear for long. Arthur's original plans were to cut the strings in a few years, when he was old enough to satisfy the members of the board and Uther's congregation that he was more than qualified to run the company and lead the ministry.

Plans changed, however. He'd learned that Uther was suspicious of Arthur's latest behaviour and that he was moving to take precautions to prevent Arthur from _"Becoming too big for his britches"_ , as one of Arthur's people had quoted him saying.

Uther could do what he liked, but Arthur intended to have all of the company's assets signed over to him, to arrange for his inheritance to be transferred to his accounts, and to quite effectively castrate Uther very, very soon.

Arthur pulled out his phone. He ignored the voice message from his father and read the emails updating him on the situation. Sophia had forwarded him the agenda and the new files for board review, waiting, as always, for the last minute with yet another one of her trite, _My apologies, I forgot to include you in the distribution list_ email.

It couldn't be more transparent that Uther had ordered her to keep Arthur as much out of the loop as possible.

He'd already studied the materials Vivian had sent him the night before. The members of the board treated him as if he were a blithering idiot of a teenager, nothing more than a puppet for Uther's ten-year plan for complete dominion of the world banks. Arthur looked forward to cutting them at the knees in the very near future.

Still, he gave the files a second look, in case there had been any changes.

"We're here," Gwaine announced, pulling into the underground garage. "Do you want me to wait?"

"No," Arthur said, sliding his phone in his suit pocket. He waited a moment for his bodyguards, who had been sent ahead, to congregate around the sedan. As long as he was still under Uther's so-called control, Arthur had an act to maintain, and his bodyguards understood the roles they had to play.

"Want me to check on Merlin?" Gwaine asked, turning his head to flash a lopsided grin.

"If you fancy becoming a smear on the wall," Arthur said with a shrug. Of all of the men and women closest to Arthur, Gwaine was his least favourite. Deadly, dangerous, and efficient, he was among the first people that Arthur would want close by if it came down to a fight. On the other hand, he was tactless, uncouth, and could be found drowning either in-between someone's legs or in the cheapest bottle of whiskey he could afford.

Gwaine twitched. He chuckled humourlessly. "Right. Merlin must still be a little touchy."

"Visit him and find out," Arthur said with a smirk. He reached for the door handle.

"Oh, before I forget, Gaius figured out what he used," Gwaine said. "I told him I'd pass it on."

Gaius had been Uther's right-hand man right up until Uther forbade him from practicing his satanic rituals. On the surface, Gaius continued to play his role the same way Arthur did, but Gaius was of much better use to everyone if he was allowed to practice his beliefs.

"He didn't call," Arthur said, frowning at his mobile.

"Said he dropped his mobile in a vat of Eye of Newt or whatever it was," Gwaine said. "Anyway, it's a Star of Bethlehem."

"I assume you don't mean the flower," Arthur said, smiling faintly. Stars were objects of perpetual light, and even the most mundane person could make a Star of Bethlehem brighten on contact. It was little more than a torch to see clearly in a gloomy room or to guide someone along an unknown path. Though his knowledge on the subject was admittedly small, Arthur wasn't aware that the Star of Bethlehem had ever been used as a weapon.

"Only Merlin, huh?" Gwaine said, raising a brow. He turned to face forward, a hand resting lazily on the steering wheel. "I guess his reputation is warranted. Didn't kill Morgana's flunky, but got the message across."

"Indeed," Arthur said. He schooled his expression to teenage petulance and stepped out of the car.

The bodyguards fell in place around him, expressionless and unfriendly at first glance. No one would suspect that they had any kind of personal relationship with their ward. Uther certainly didn't. Gareth's passion was his music, but as long as his grandmother was in a care centre, he had to pay the bills -- the side errands he did for Arthur let him save up so that he could quit his day job. Lamorak had grown up in an orphanage with no idea of who his parents were, though thanks to Arthur, he was aware that he was a nephilim and was getting close to finding the sister he hadn't known he'd had. Theobald ( _"Just call me Theo, I fucking hate my name"_ ) was an army vet currently embroiled in a messy divorce, and the lawyer Arthur had secured for him would make certain that he obtained custody of his two young daughters.

Arthur had learned at a very young age that Uther cared nothing for the everyman or woman. Most of the people in Uther's little congregation were pedantic upper class who cared nothing outside their sphere of existence and influence. It was baffling to see so many self-proclaimed Satanists thumbing their noses at the very tenets that most Satanists held dear, but they all came to heel whenever Uther snapped his fingers.

Uther relied on everyone to do his dirty work for him. Mary at the reception desk, whose son was in intensive care after being brutally attacked on the streets. A grey-faced Monmouth in the libraries whose chemotherapy treatments weren't doing much against his Stage IV lymphoma. Even Uther's own two-faced secretary, Sophia, who in the hopes of marrying well one day, lifted up her skirts whenever Uther wanted a quick fuck.

All of them, except for those in Uther's inner circle and, of course, Sophia, would be Arthur's instrument in bringing his father to heel.

And Uther would never know until it was too late.

"Shall I come back in an hour, then?" Gwaine asked.

Arthur half turned, about to shake his head, _I'll call_ on his lips. A fluorescent light flickered, at the far end of the underground garage, reflecting over the sea of expensive sedans in muted blacks, greys and blues before burning out.

It happened again.

And again.

One light at a time.

Arthur rolled his eyes. He pinched his brow. Fucking _theatrics_.

"Park and get out," Arthur said, pointing to an empty spot. For once, Gwaine didn't argue and did what he was told. "Gareth. Theo. Call the lift. No matter what happens, go upstairs and wait for me."

"Yes, sir," Gareth said, subdued. He stared at the distant lights as they went out, his movements jerky as he fumbled and depressed the _Up_ button. Theo handed his gun to Gwaine.

The lights continued to go black, one by one, flickering ominously before darkness spread across a few more parking spots. At the midway point, the lights sparked. Shadows stretched out into disembodied figures. Into jagged limbs, broken wings, claws. Monstrous and foreboding, meant to threaten and frighten.

Arthur checked his watch. He didn't have time for this.

The doors to the lift opened. Gareth went in with the sort of barely-restrained haste of a man spooked but trying not to show it. Theo hesitated a moment, but only to slap an extra gun cartridge in Gwaine's hand. Arthur waited until the doors closed.

"Shoot him."

Lamorak fired.

The encroaching shadows jerked. Claws scratched on the cement. Wings drooped. A flickering light stopped flickering and stayed on.

A low, _surprised_ moan came from across the darkness. A heavy weight thumped, a car's suspension system squeaked, and a car alarm blared. Yellow lights and white lights flashed in petulant warning, and the reflected flash fell on the physical shape of a stoop-shouldered, large-headed, figure bowed over itself.

Lamorak picked up the bullet casing with a cloth handkerchief, because his bullets were qere-coated, as poisonous to him as they were to other nephilim. He put it in his pocket.

Arthur glanced at his bodyguard and nodded in approval.

The creature lurched to its feet. A crooked wing lashed out, the spiked fanfolds shattering windshield and piercing the soft metal hood. The force of the blow blew out two tyres on the driver's side. The car bleated one last, pathetic whine before the alarm stopped dead.

Arthur sighed quietly. He scratched the back of his head, flicked away a piece of lint from his sleeve, straightened out his cuff.

"Want me to get him?" Gwaine asked.

"Hm." After a moment, Arthur said, "No." As much as he trusted Gwaine to handle himself well during a battle, Arthur wasn't interested in seeing any of his men hurt and injured over nothing. The nephilim proved it had sufficient strength to destroy a car. Surely it had the strength to drag its arse closer, though hopefully without all the useless dramatic effect.

A grunt, a scrape, a drag. The hulking nephilim moved through the darkness, skirting the demarcation line before trespassing into the dim light.

Discounting the overly-large head and exaggerated chiropteran wings, the nephilim was easily the shortest man Arthur had ever encountered. His fashion sense was limited by the awkward shape of his body -- bowed legs, a barrel-round chest with an emaciated waist, shoulders permanently curled inward, as if the bone had been bowed by too-long, too-heavy wings.

"Ugly fellow," Lamorak commented.

The nephilim's chin was raised high to accommodate an elongated jaw and pronounced overbite. Pug nose, narrow eyes, a skull that flared up and outward like a rectangular designer vase, he had no hair to speak of, his skin was on the middle range of the gray scale, and one ear appeared to have been freshly lopped off.

"I don't know. I find him oddly appealing," Arthur mused. He raised his voice to be heard over the distance. "From the old _anu-na-ne-ke_ bloodlines, aren't you? I didn't think there were many left. Where did my dear sister find you?"

The nephilim snuffled loudly. He scraped closer, the left wing drooping and dragging on the pavement with every step. Dark blood stained the coarse fabric of his coat under the collarbone but above where the heart would be in a human. A wounding shot, but not a killing wound, enough to slow him down. The qere poison would finish the job in time.

"No matter," Arthur said when the nephilim didn't answer. "I imagine she sent you to voice her displeasure for… Well. For any number of things, I suppose --"

The nephilim opened its mouth and _haw-ha-haw_ ed through thin, needle-like teeth. Arthur tilted his head, listening and watching. The nephilim extended one arm, a clawed, clenched hand loosening its grasp, and a medallion fell from a golden chain.

St Raphael.

Arthur's amusement slipped. There was only one person Morgana could have taken this particular medallion from. Only one among all known nephilim who would claim his father in such a way. Too good of a man to be anything else but faithful to the cause even as he consorted with the enemy.

Rage boiled in Arthur's blood. His vision tinted red at the edges. Sharp spikes prickled under his skin. Power _ached_ to be released in vengeance, but it would be wasted here.

"I see. A declaration of war," Arthur said, his voice cold. He nodded to himself. Plans would need to be accelerated. People contacted. Loose ends tied up. There was no more time for games. "War it is, then."

The nephilim lurched forward. The bullet wound wept. The low growl became a wheeze.

"Kill him," Arthur said, turning for the lift.

A chorusing echo of a bullet barrage resounded in the garage. Morgana's messenger fell to the ground with a squelching sound. Already weakened by qere poisoning, the nephilim could do nothing as angel-killer taenitic bullets damaged vital organs.

Arthur pushed the call button. The lift arrived well after the last muted echo faded into the darkness. He stepped into the lift, moving aside as Lamorak joined him, his weapon holstered. Lamorak's expression was empty of emotion, as always, but Gwaine's deep frown spoke volumes.

"Get rid of the body. Clean the area," Arthur ordered. Gwaine bared teeth and blackness bled into his eyes in a lapse of momentary control, but he nodded. "Warn the others. Tell Leon that Lancelot is lost to us."

Gwaine gnashed his teeth, clearly not wanting to be the bearer of bad news. "And Merlin?"

 _Find him_ was on Arthur's lips, but he was drawn short by a strange, rumbling sensation. It pulled at him, deep down at his core, enchanting and warm and wonderful. He could almost feel the cuneiform drawn on his skin, a teasing touch that promised so much.

And with it --

Evisceration. An exquisite _unmaking_.

A smile pulled at Arthur's lips despite the lingering aggravation.

"Arthur?" Gwaine asked, concerned.

"Oh." Arthur frowned a little and shook his head. "Don't worry about Merlin. He's fine."

Gwaine narrowed his eyes, but a moment later, bowed his head in obeisance.

The doors closed. Lamorak pushed the button for the floor to Uther's offices.

Arthur cracked his fingers one by one, but it did little to distract him from his delight. How powerful Merlin was. How wonderful he felt to Arthur. How _beautiful_ he was in his mercilessness. Arthur fought to keep himself from being a too-obvious teenager with a crush and forced himself to take on a stern tone.

"Lamorak. Call maintenance. Let them know the lights on the parking level are burned out."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The demon was four feet tall, willowy-slim, with fingers that were half again as long as its arms, edged with nails that started growing at the knuckles and were as sharp as razors.

Merlin's fingers drew away from his cheek covered in blood.

The demon giggled.

It crouched, elbows on his knees, and tilted its head. Bulbous eyes as black as smelter slag, a mouth that was a jagged line sawed into a coarse burlap bag, the letters F L O U R upside down and inside out. The fingers of one hand tap-tap-tapped the concrete floor of the warehouse, seven of them plus a thumb, slim like a daddy longlegs spider's limbs.

The demon darted away soundlessly, blurring from one sliver of light to the next, growing bigger and bigger as it departed.

"Fucking demons," Merlin muttered.

He wouldn't be here if his sources hadn't promised that Mary would have information for him. Tracking down anyone who had known about the attack on Merlin outside of Arthur Pendragon's building was difficult considering how nephilim, angels, and Fallen avoided Merlin like the plague. Assurances that he didn't mean them any harm were difficult to believe when he'd once spent a good chunk of his life hunting them down for transgressions against mankind.

He had no choice but to rely on sources that were spotty, at best, and who hated him just as much, but who weren't as prone to bloodlust and murder.

Mary, it seemed, was now in that category.

Merlin pushed himself from the ground with a muted groan. His ribs ached where the demon had head-butted him, but it didn't feel as if anything was broken.

Merlin took slow stock of himself. The cut on his cheek didn't hurt, but it poured blood, drenching his face in a waterfall and soiling his shirt. His trench coat was ripped where the demon had grabbed him, his thighs ached from phantom wounds where the demon had climbed him, and his neck was wrenched from being thrown tits-over-heels by a monster that barely weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet.

"Fucking demons," he said again, louder.

He brushed himself off. His trousers were torn at the knees where he'd slipped and fallen, and Merlin hissed in frustration. Not counting the tailored clothes that had mysteriously appeared in his closet over the last few days, the trousers he was wearing were his last good pair.

"I came in _peace_ , Mary," Merlin said, keeping his voice at a normal volume. "Considering everything you've done, I didn't need to be nice. I didn't have to knock."

Merlin found a crumpled paper napkin from the chippie stand in his coat pocket and pressed it uselessly against his cheek. It stuck to the blood and scruff on his face, but that wasn't the point. He mopped up as much blood as he could, even opening the thin cut until the cheap paper was a dripping ball.

Blood magic was dangerous magic. An entire arcane school of thought had been built around the use of bodily fluids, structuring what had once been sheer, raw shamanistic power into production line magic for its mishandling by anyone with a sharp enough knife and the gumption to use it. Incantations, runic wards, hexes -- those were children's toys compared to what Merlin could do with the power of his own blood.

He wiped his face with his sleeve and moved forward. The warehouse was full of empty boxes positioned to create makeshift rooms, and each room was filled full of cheap imported knickknacks still in their packaging, dried herbs masquerading as exotic supplies, and forged books passed off as the genuine article. Mary's storefront was a witch's shop that carried absolutely nothing practical for witchcraft.

Necromancy and demonology, on the other hand --

"I warned you what would happen if you continued to practice, Mary. One chance. That's all that I would ever give you, and your little pet is all the proof I need that you broke our agreement."

Merlin picked up a bottle of mandrake root, the glass faceted to give the carved ginger inside a similar appearance to the real thing. He shook the little jar as he walked, murmuring an incantation under his breath to focus the magic in the air, feeding it through the waxed seal and into the ginger.

"Go away, Emrys," Mary hissed. She sounded weak, injured. Merlin couldn't find it in him to care. Mary was a duplicitous bitch who would do whatever she could to overcome an opponent.

A shadow flit across the light at the far end of the warehouse where Mary made her quarters. She lived in squalor -- running water from the tiny washroom in a cramped office, a hanging bag shower in the corner running on rainwater collected through the broken ceiling, a cobbled fire pit jackhammered in the cement.

Merlin ducked under a low beam, avoiding the chicken legs nailed along the side, and emerged into the light.

The necromantic seals dotting the floor and the makeshift doorframe had all been scarred over in some way, breaking them. Whatever Mary had attempted to summon had not been pleased to be brought into this world and had made its distaste expressly known.

She hadn't even bothered with wards.

Merlin traced over one of the runes with a bloody finger and at once _knew_ Mary's intent. It came to him in flashes as he looked around the octagonal room.

Books stacked neatly in haphazardly-stacked milk bins. _Books upon books wildly strewn about, pages torn in desperate search for rites of warding and protection_.

A nested pile of roughhewn blankets, flannels, and what looked to be improperly-cured animal skins. _Nightmares and cold sweat, jagged fingernails digging into mottled flesh, rocking on a soaked mattress and shivering in the cool air, muttering, "He comes. He comes. He comes."_

"You knew I was coming, Mary," Merlin said, tilting his head. After a moment, he frowned, trying to imagine how. It was possible that the creature who led him here had called ahead to warn her, but she wasn't well-liked. It was equally possible that she had had a vision, though, despite her own delusions of grandeur, she had never been all that powerful.

Mary crawled away from him, dragging her legs across the floor. She was thinner than he remembered, older. Stringy straw hair, sagging jowls, pale blue eyes washed out by time and made narrow by heavy brows and deep crows' nests. _Sigils and circles hastily scrawled in chalk, smeared over again and again to cover mistakes, the lines imperfect, frantic._

"It's not me you're afraid of," Merlin said, realization dawning. He looked at the drying blood wadding up in his hand and had the feeling that he didn't have any time. He crouched, watching Mary as she crawled into the middle of a protective circle in old, chipped paint on the floor. "Who's after you?"

She didn't answer. Merlin scratched the drying blood along his jaw, flakes sticking under his fingernails.

"Why are they after you?" Merlin pushed. "You're a two-bit back-alley witch with a weird demon kink. No one hates you enough to kill you. What is this about? Did you do something?"

Even if they could answer Merlin's questions, the after-images behind the intent of the rite were fading, and there was nothing in what Merlin had seen thus far to explain Mary's agitation. The warehouse reeked of acrid sulphur and tainted ichor from Mary's magic. Merlin hadn't been able to tell if there was any danger. It was how that little ankle-biting demon got the drop on him in the first place.

Still, he glanced around, but the makeshift walls impeded any clear line of sight. Beyond the opening behind him, there was nothing but darkness.

And that fucking little wicker demon.

"Does this have to do with the nephilim who tried to kill me?" Merlin studied Mary carefully for any reaction, but she only huddled over herself, curling her legs against her chest. "Is there a bounty on my head?"

There had been a bounty on Merlin's head for years. Every few months, someone tried to cash it in. Mary had tried once, throwing a poisoned knife at him from across a crowded room, but some poor innocent had gotten in the way.

"A new one?" Merlin tried.

The way Mary's head snapped up at him was telling. Her eyes were wide and round, her upper lip pulled back, baring crooked teeth into a snarl.

"Is the bounty because of Arthur Pendragon?" Merlin asked.

"Go to Hell. _Go to Hell!_ " Mary shouted, covering her head in her hand, throwing an arm out behind her defensively.

Merlin stood up. Clearly, this was one of Mary's bad days, and he'd have better luck getting blood out of a stone --

A high-pitched shriek cut through the darkness beyond the false safety offered by Mary's homemade flat. Wet tearing, like a dishcloth snagging on a sharp corner, echoing with a cloying drip. An object splattered. Another one bounced.

Merlin moved toward the open doorway, scanning the trinkets and doo-dads crammed on every available surface for something that he could use. As soon as he moved, a tumultuous crash collapsed a wall of milk cartons, storybooks, and packets of hoarded tea. The debris fed the little fire pit, the flames growing taller.

A dark figure rose from where it had landed, standing straight and proud, back arched into a faint curve reminiscent of an exaggerated model pose. Shoulders back, chest out, the figure held out a hand, spreading his fingers one by one.

It was a man -- or at least, some sort of human-like effigy of the male gender. It was stout and solid, physically no different than the average, dressed in plain trousers and shirt beneath a navy-blue pea coat that was buttoned up nearly to the neck. Its head was covered in a sailor's wool cap, but as it turned toward Merlin, its profile was set alight by the growing fire, and it was broken, bent, and completely monstrous.

Sunken cheeks or exaggerated cheekbones -- it was difficult to tell which it was. A crooked nose like a staircase, an elongated jaw that stuck out into a pharaoh's beard, bone and flesh stretched long and jutting at the chin. The forehead sloped back, hidden beneath the cap.

Merlin didn't need to _look_ to see the nephilim's immature, malformed wings half-hidden by the ether.

The nephilim turned to Merlin with glowing orange pinpoints for eyes, and a wide mouth full of broad blunt teeth pulled into a smile that was more bloodthirsty than amused.

"Hello," Merlin said, his fingers tightening around the glass jar, his thumbnail digging into the wax seal.

This nephilim was _anu-na-ne-ke_ , a descendent of an ancient Sumerian bloodline and a relic of a time when angels were worshipped as Gods, leaving behind privileged, deformed offspring to act as overseers of an imprisoned race, the Heavenly-Host-made-flesh acting as deterrents against rebellion, freedom, and free will.

Unlike with most other nephilim bloodlines, the angelic contribution to the _anu-na-ne-ke_ bred true, passing on from one generation to the next without surcease in monstrous features. Society forgot the nature of the deformed creatures and stoned them to death in a time when physical defects were believed evil, locked them up when sanatoriums were all the rage, and were regarded with morbid interest by the modern medical community.

This one, it seemed, was one of the lucky ones, because in the dim light of a fire that was spreading slowly but surely across the fallen "wall" of Mary's flat, the _anu-na-ne-ke_ almost appeared normal.

The nephilim raised its chin, almost in a sneer, and raised the arm that Merlin couldn't see until now. Merlin couldn't process what he saw until the steel rebar was stabbed through Mary's chest. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The rebar bent and vibrated where it pinned her to the concrete.

Merlin didn't look away from Mary's pale blue eyes until all the light went out in them. Mary's body slumped over, as if in a penitent prayer, trapped in that form --

The rebar was wrenched out of Mary's body. The corpse slid onto its side and flopped down.

"You were warned," the _anu-na-ne-ke_ said, tossing the rebar onto the pile of debris. The flames sparked, driven alive once again, and licked the pages of an open book before deciding, _Yes, this will burn_. "You did not listen. You were seen. Asking questions. Meddling where you are unwanted. Do you see the consequences of your actions?"

Merlin spread his hands, a bottle of ginger in one, a blood-soaked napkin in the other. The nephilim tilted its head mechanically, sniffing the air with a snub nose that didn't fit its face. "Didn't you see the consequence of yours?"

The nephilim's mouth spread wide, teeth long and wide, shaped like popsicle sticks. " _If anyone comes after Arthur Pendragon, I'm going to kill them,_ " it said, his voice a low-pitched mimicry that at once sounded like Merlin and didn't quite match tenor and tone.

Merlin flinched. "Do I really sound like that? That's bloody awful."  
  
The nephilim approached slowly, its steps artificial, creaking as if a puppeteer had forgotten to grease the joints. "We kept our word. We did. We did. Not a hair on the Heir's head. No, oh, no. Not until you broke faith first. Agreed we did. Blood was spilled to seal the pact."

"What pact?" Merlin remembered a blood smear that burst to flames, scorching the side of at least two buildings next to each other. He might have been distracted with righteous fury, unexplainable protectiveness, and the hormones of a man who couldn't believe he'd walked away from a gorgeous, _willing_ kid, but he definitely didn't remember having agreed to anything.

"You walk away, you walk away," the nephilim chanted. "And we leave the King-to-be alone."

"Funny, your bloke didn't mention that," Merlin said, taking a step back. The nephilim's breath was foul, like a maggot's feast of entrails rotting outside an abattoir. Merlin's eyes watered.

The nephilim continued to advance, slow, as if having to define every movement and sort out how to do it before imitating a human gait. "You broke the pact. You asked questions. You meddled. It is ours to act, and we _have_."

It sounded awfully gleeful, and Merlin fought the sensation of growing dread.

"Fratricide is a private matter," the nephilim said, tilting his head the other way in a slow, stuttering movement. It made Merlin feel as if he were under intense scrutiny and was found wanting. "The Prince of Princes is dead or will soon be. My duty is to ensure you do not interfere as we end the Wilful Child."

Merlin pushed down the growing fear for Arthur's safety, knowing that there wasn't much that he could do about it at the moment. "And you're all that they send? I'm…"

Merlin trailed off. He continued to retreat, drawing the nephilim after him and into open space as he worked through what he'd been told. As far as Merlin had been able to tell, officially, Arthur Pendragon was an only child. Though there were rumours that Uther Pendragon had several illegitimate children gunning for a chunk of his sizeable, successful empire, those rumours had either been publicly denounced or quietly paid off.

He'd made mention of a half-sister, though, which didn't fit with what Merlin had learned.

Maybe that sister was gunning for Arthur in the hopes of being named the heir to the Pendragon fortune, but Merlin doubted any of them would make a habit of hanging out with nephilim, never mind one of the _anu-na-ne-ke_.

King-to-be. Prince of Princes. The Wilful Child. Those were meaningless titles that Merlin would have dismissed until he heard them spoken all at once by the same creature. There was only one person who could be named the prince of princes, and that was the antichrist.

The realization washed through Merlin with a cold spike through his soul.

 _Fuck. I'm thick._ He should have guessed a long time ago. He was out of practice. But there was no doubt. Arthur Pendragon was the antichrist.

All the questions, all the confusion. The angels who had attacked Arthur in the alley. The nephilim stalking outside the apartment building. The terror in the eyes of informants who wanted nothing to do with _Arthur Pendragon_ while shakily pointing a finger to another worthless trail for Merlin to follow.

Merlin understood. And yet -- the Arthur he knew, the boy he'd met, beautiful, flirtatious and playful? Merlin couldn't see him as the monster all the sacred texts had painted him to be. He just -- it didn't fit.

The nephilim had named him. King to be. Prince of Princes. The Wilful Child. He wasn't yet the Violent Man, the Bladebearer of the Hellstone, nor the Wilful King spoken of in scripture.

Prophesy was not destiny. Merlin was the proof of that. He was damned if he'd let anyone kill someone who hadn't done anything to anyone.

"What?" the nephilim pressed. It laughed throatily and fluttered misshapen fingers in the air. "What are you? Human? Weak? Beneath me?"

Annoyance jarred Merlin back into the moment. His thumb and forefinger twisted around the wax seal, but he'd barely made a dent in it. He'd have to break the glass. "I'm insulted, actually. I think I rate more than some schmuck of an _anu-na-ne-ke_ who wants to grow up to be a real boy."

The nephilim opened its mouth, revealing a second row of teeth. This set was far sharper and pointed than the first.

" _You're_ going to kill me?" Merlin asked. His magic pulsed down his hand easily, drawn to the magic already captive within the glass jar and energized by the ginger. The glass disintegrated from the inside and from the outside, the magic eager to for a meeting in-between.

The jar crumpled in his hand. The waxed cork bounced on the concrete. Fibrous ginger dusted to the ground, its power magnifying Merlin's magic. Merlin wouldn't even need to strain himself.

"Did they even tell you who I am?"

The nephilim jerked its head in a twitching motion that could be interpreted as confusion. On the _anu-na-ne-ke_ , it was a gesture of confirmation.

"Did they tell you I'm burned up? Washed out? That I used to be something, back in the day?"

Merlin spread his arms wide, ginger-fuelled magic dancing in a golden orb around one hand, flashing and flaring like ball lightning, while a still-wet take-away napkin stained the other with blood. What a fucking sight he must make. Clothes in disarray. A slice across his cheek, blood clotted in his beard, soaking down his trench coat and shirt.

He didn't care. Power flooded through him, tickling under the skin, drawing a mad, drunk laugh from his lips. He hadn't felt this alive in a damn long time.

The nephilim approached, its arms up, claws curled to cut and kill.

Merlin clapped his hands together. A thunderous rumble shattered the sound barrier with him in the epicentre. Boxes toppled over, debris rolled away like tumbleweed, and the nephilim crouched hastily and clawed the ground to keep from being blown away.

Golden magic mixed with blood and fed the seed of a spell Merlin had perfected a long time ago. A familiar sigil formed in the air between Merlin and the nephilim. Something settled inside of Merlin, like a key unlocking, chains falling away.

A circle within a circle within a circle, a triangle containing the innermost and woven through the middle. Futhark runes spelled destruction within the outermost rim. Enochian in the spaces between the triangle and within the central circle whispered oblivion.

"My name is Emrys," Merlin said, watching as Sumerian cuneiform writ the nephilim's name in sweeping lines that formed within the middle circle of the sigil. "I am the Executioner."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"My bloody Da. Won't let Mum kick the bucket, not 'til he's bled her dry first since the prenup and the will make sure he gets the lint in her pockets and nothing more. Between the slags he's shagging and the medical bills, I'll be bloody destitute by the time I get to uni."

"Destitute, huh? That's a big word for you," Arthur said distractedly, thumbing through his mobile.

"My baby sister got me one of those Word of the Day flipbooks for my birthday. The one you missed," Thomas Eliot Osmond of the Canterbury Osmonds and future heir of the Dalhousie fortune said meaningfully, raising a brow when Arthur glanced at him. "It was a good run, too. Loose birds from Exeter West, a kegger or two. Even watched old Reggie here dive the headmaster's Jag into the pool."

"Didn't mean to. The gearshift was sticky. If it's anyone's fault, it's the Head's for skipping out on regular maintenance," Reginald Worthington III said with a nonchalant shrug.

Reggie's father had gotten him off the punishment list without receiving so much as a slap on the wrist for the damage caused. Worthington Number Two, as Reggie called him, was particularly affable about the whole matter after Reggie reminded him of the photographs Arthur had secured a long time ago as leverage for exactly this sort of situation. A man with Worthington Number Two's political aspirations couldn't afford his proclivities for being tied up and pegged by a leather-clad Domme coming to light.

"Do you ever take the blame for anything?" Ollie -- Olivander Laird, heir to Jackson Laird's vast and profitable illegal weapons trade asked. His father was much less easy to manipulate, and his short temper showed in the black-and-blue half-moon around Ollie's left eye.

"No," Reggie said, grinning. He turned to Tommy and smacked his arm. "Oi. Why don't you smother your Mum like you said you'd do? Pillow over her head, turn off the oxygen? Save you a whole lot of trouble. It worked for Ollie's Dad when he did Cheating Wife Number Two."

"That it did," Ollie said, bored, his eyes glazed. "Dumped her in the pool, though, then paid off the medical examiner who spotted the lack of fluid in the lungs. Got himself off a murder charge easy as he pleased, too."

Arthur looked up, then, exhaling in exasperation. "The future leaders of the world, ladies and gentlemen. A bunch of bloody numpties who natter on about murder and mayhem the way most moan about the weather. I worry for the state of the world when they have a go at the helm."

"You're in a right strop, Pendragon," Tommy said. He broke school rules and veered from the white gravel path and onto the manicured lawn, ducking behind an old brick storage building while he lit up a cigarette. "What's with you? For that matter, _where_ were you Saturday last? A brunette with tits out to here, Mithian, her name was, I think, she was asking after you. Didn't have the heart to tell her that you're saving all your swimmers for some bloke's arse. Don't worry, I sucked her clit until she was good and wet, then made her forget all about you."

He grabbed his crotch and made a rude gesture.

"That's not to say how much you like getting on your knees to suck my dick, huh, Tommy?" Arthur asked, getting right into Tommy's space. "Or how pretty you are when you're holding yourself open so the whole block can have a go at your slutty hole?"

Tommy was taller and weighed a good stone more, but every person Arthur had ever met seemed to subconsciously recognize a dangerous predator. Tommy was no different. He held up his hands, cigarette hanging from his bottom lip, and mumbled an apology. The others were studying Arthur out of the corner of their eyes, waiting for Arthur's temper to blow over before they said or did anything that might attract his attention.

"And the rest of you lot, how many times have I told you, don't be bloody incriminating. If you're going to kill someone, have the stones to bloody well _do_ it instead of jawing on like a bunch of spoilt housewives," Arthur snapped. "I refuse to believe I've been wasting my time on you."

"Um," Reggie said, holding up his arm. " _Future_ housewife here, thank you very much."

Ollie snickered. Tommy smirked and took a long drag of his cigarette. Arthur rolled his eyes. Uther Pendragon might have hand-picked these boys to be Arthur's friends, shaping his future entourage, but Arthur liked them regardless.

"My friends are philandering psychopaths," Arthur remarked.

"Tommy's right, though," Ollie said. "You're in a right strop. What happened, did your bloke break with you? You've been checking your phone like you're expecting bad news."

"He'd better have been a good shag if you missed out on my party," Tommy pointed out.

"My bloke is none of your bloody business," Arthur said, glancing at the screen of his mobile. A text from Leon came through, and he tapped the numeric pad to get past the lock screen.

"You should forget about him," Tommy said. He blew out a haze of cigarette smoke and picked at his bottom lip, flicking away the debris from his cheap roll-ups. He could afford better, but he said the cheapies had better flavour. "Fuck him out of your system with some nameless pervy blighter, like that one over there."

 _He's here_ , Leon's text said.

Arthur followed Tommy's pointed finger toward the gates surrounding Sunminster Heights. Lurking just beyond the wrought iron and watching them from the shadow cast by the stone pillars was a dark-haired man in supple black leather trench coat tailored for his frame. He wore dress trousers and a rich blue button-down beneath, fashionable enough to be overlooked in this part of town.

Delight tugged at Arthur's lips to realize that Merlin was finally wearing some of the clothes George had sneaked into Merlin's closet.

"That happens to be my pervy blighter, and watch what you say about him," Arthur said, typing a quick reply to Leon to stay away. Merlin had disappeared off everyone's radar for several days since the incident with Morgana's assassin, and if not for the constant, peripheral _awareness_ of Merlin's survival from the attempt on his life, Arthur would have fretted more. Leon might spook Merlin, and Arthur didn't want to risk it.

Seeing him alive and well was a reassurance Arthur hadn't expected, and relief flooded through him as he watched Merlin shift away from the shadows to stand in the light, his hands stuffed in the pockets of the trench coat.

Arthur frowned, because Merlin didn't look happy.

"He's right fit. Older, too, innit. I bet he shags like a champion," Reggie remarked. "If he wants to bend me over a table, he could. You're not the sharing type, are you?"

Arthur shot Reggie a glare so sharp that he squeaked in fright, listing sideways to hide behind Ollie. "Get to class," he told them. He pointed at Tommy. "You, put that out. I don't want to hear you whinge when Prof Wetton gives you detention because he caught you with that joint."

"What about you?" Reggie asked.

"What do you think?" Arthur asked, walking toward the gates. "I'm going to see my bloke."

The bells rang the start of the next class session, and where most of the students walked grumpily across the campus to their respective buildings, Arthur sauntered across the manicured lawn toward the gates, taking his time. Someone was bound to look out the window and see them, but a few demerits for walking on the grass and a week in detention for speaking to someone who wasn't on the approved list was nothing when Arthur could pay a fresher to do the time for him.

Arthur took his time descending the gentle slope, using the opportunity to eye Merlin freely. His trousers fit him better, though what possessed him to wear those scuffed combat boots with that outfit, Arthur didn't know. Arthur wished Merlin wasn't wearing the long coat, wanting to see how well the fitted shirt hugged Merlin's broad shoulders. The leather trench coat suited Merlin much better than the crumpled trench coat from the nineteen-seventies, giving him a more dangerous air.

He needed a shave and a decent haircut, but Arthur thought that he'd be able to take Merlin out in public fairly soon.

Merlin's expression didn't change as Arthur approached, and Arthur slowed down, cautious. He offered Merlin a small smile. "Fancy seeing you --"

"You're the antichrist," Merlin said flatly.

Arthur stumbled to a startled halt.

He'd never been so bluntly called out, and never in that particular tone. Uther's congregation either revered Arthur or treated him with the condescension due a child. His enemies carefully couched disdain in the way they said his name. Merlin… Merlin declared him exactly as he was without any sort of reservation, twinning his words with a vague resignation that came with an undertone of, _I should have known_.

Arthur closed the distance between them, mulling his options. He'd been startled to silence for far too long; his hesitation couldn't be seen as anything other than confirmation, and denial would get him nowhere. Merlin wouldn't appreciate deflection or subterfuge, and when Arthur stopped on his side of the fence, he asked, "Is that a deal-breaker?"

Merlin's mouth was in a thoughtful set, a faint pinch appeared on his brow, and his eyes scanned Arthur with impersonal detachment that gave away nothing of what he was thinking. "Depends. What's the deal?"

Arthur pretended to misunderstand and offered up an innocuous truth as sacrifice. "Something more than a one-night stand. I'm very territorial, and I don't share."

The pinch deepened into a frown and Merlin's lips pursed into a moue that matched the faint huff. "Why did you come to Camden, Arthur?"

"We had this conversation," Arthur said.

"And you avoided answering. Congratulations. It's not often that I don't notice when someone dodges a question."

Arthur allowed himself a small smile. He sidled closer to the wrought iron and leaned his hip against it, offering up his best coy smile. "Do I distract you, Merlin?"

Merlin closed his eyes. The air between them filled with an aura of annoyance. He reached up and grabbed the fence's bars. If not for the physical barrier between them, Arthur could easily imagine himself pressed against a wall, Merlin caging him with his arms. While the thought appealed to him, he preferred it if it was the other way around.

"You gave your bodyguards the night off. You didn't want the hospital because you didn't want your father finding out that you've been where you shouldn't be. What were you looking for in Camden?" Merlin asked.

Arthur frowned, pretending to be hurt. Merlin's refusal to play along didn't so much sting as entice Arthur to keep trying, but he sensed that if he went down that route, he would lose Merlin.

For once, complete honesty was the best policy. He tilted his head. Offered a feeble shrug of his shoulders. "I was looking for you."

Merlin's fingers twitched on the bars. He rocked on his heels in an aborted motion to walk away. His blank expression changed, intent and fierce. "What do you want with me?"

A wry smile stretched across Arthur's mouth before he could stop it, and he glanced down along Merlin's body. "Well --"

"Arthur," Merlin snapped.

Arthur looked away, though more to hide the mirth that no doubt shone in his eyes than in contrition. If any of Arthur's men spoke to him in that tone, they never would again. With Merlin, Arthur couldn't help but revel in the challenge. The exchange felt more like a seduction than any attempt to force genuine submission.

He scratched the back of his head and shrugged again like a lost little teenager who didn't have anyone to trust or to confide in.

"Arthur," Merlin said, his tone softer, cajoling, gentle. Arthur could feel Merlin's resolve crumbling and it was delicious. "Why were you looking for me?"

Arthur sniffed and pushed away from the bars. He turned to face the school and contemplated walking away, if for no other reason than to dangle the lure in front of Merlin's willing nose for a little longer. However, Arthur was acutely aware that he was running out of time, and that he couldn't take his time with Merlin like he wanted. He would so enjoy playing with Merlin, but that would have to wait. He needed Merlin now. "Do you really have to ask me that question?"

Merlin dropped his arms from the iron bars. He touched one eyebrow in a gesture of frustration. "Explain it to me."

Arthur half-turned, giving Merlin his profile. "My father has me collared and leashed as if I'm a disobedient pet, trotting me out only for special events so that he can show off his prize-winning Best in Breed."

Merlin made a soft sound. Arthur faced him.

"He was wrong if he thought he could keep certain… _organizations_ from noticing me. He shields me as much as he can, but I'm not stupid. A small mountain of death threats are delivered to the mansion from believers of every faith with some version of the antichrist in their mythos. Rome sent a Hunting Party, and they're still lurking around somewhere. One of them broke into my flat two months ago, pretending to be a cleaner, but all he did was bless every room, probably hoping it would kill me. And then, there's… all those _others_."

Arthur tilted his head as if to see if Merlin understood what he meant. Merlin nodded, but his expression was guarded.

"My father doesn't understand what he's done. He doesn't see beyond his own status, how much power he can gain, or how many pound notes you flash under his nose. If I tell him that an angel or a demon tried to kill me, he'd blow it off but give me a couple of extra bodyguards. _Human_ bodyguards with no idea that the supernatural is real or that their bullets won't do a damn thing."

Arthur trailed off, stopping himself. There were many things he wanted to say about Uther Pendragon, but they wouldn't serve him now.

"Even my half-sister -- not Uther's, you understand, but _Him_ , below…" Arthur shook his head, leaving it there. That was enough; Merlin could make the connections himself, and the conclusion in his mind, right or wrong, could only be in Arthur's favour.

He took a step closer to the fence.

"I have to protect myself. I want to live. I don't want to be who they want me to be. I have that right, don't I? Except I don't, not really. I never did. It was an illusion." Arthur tried to catch Merlin's eye, but Merlin stared past Arthur, his jaw clenched. "I asked around. I did my research. There's nobody that they're more afraid of than you."

"Maybe once," Merlin said, his voice like ice. His eyes were just as cold, as if he were haunted and trying to protect himself, and for Arthur, well, that just wouldn't do. "I don't do that shite anymore."

Arthur fell quiet, weighing his options. Pointing out that Merlin already had _done that shite_ would be a mistake. Arthur could push and cajole, but Merlin's history proved he didn't respond predictably to any kind of direct pressure. Threatening a man who had nothing to gain and even less to lose would get him nowhere. Begging or pleading, bribing or promising, appealing to logic or pulling on heartstrings -- none of those tactics would work. Not on Merlin.

Merlin was a man who had gone to war and had done horrible acts. The legions of Hell loathed him as much as they feared him, but they would wait in the underworld for Merlin to die a mortal death. They would rip him apart as soon as he crossed into Hell. There was no Heaven in his future, not after all his sins, and any redemption would be foiled by angels seeking revenge.

There was one thing Arthur could offer Merlin. One thing that he might accept. But Arthur needed Merlin to ask for it of his own free will, because there was power in such things.

So Arthur stayed silent, at a loss for words, without knowing what to do or say to fix a fraying thread before it snapped all the way. He did the only thing he could.

He reached through the bars, hating how Merlin stared at him warily, like a spooked kitten about to scratch and run. But Arthur only lightly touched Merlin's cheek, smiling to himself at the softness of a scruffy beard, and traced the thin cut all across his cheek.

"I'm sorry."

 

 

 

 

Merlin pulled away, _broken_ filling the air between them. Arthur's fingers twitched, wanting to fix it. He could fix it. But it had to come from Merlin.

Merlin shook his head vehemently, a denial to something unspoken, and walked away.

He didn't look back.

The thread snapped. Arthur had lost Merlin.

"Damn it," Arthur swore. Logically, he knew he needed to cut his losses and move forward. He still had options. Granted, they were unappealing options, but if he was careful, everything would turn out. Phone calls, money transfers, a little intimidation here, a whole lot more pressure elsewhere. The faster he moved, the sooner he would have everything in place.

Instead of reaching for his phone, he rubbed his chest absentmindedly and stayed where he was all through the next bell, hating how bloody _maudlin_ he'd become.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Merlin stormed down the steps. The bouncer raised his hand, a flashcard between bandaged fingers. Merlin took note of the intact fingertips peeking through, the ketchup and mustard stain on the palm. He recognized Merlin and flinched, scrambling out of the way.

Merlin's stride didn't break as he walked past. He flicked his hand sharply and the door to the club smacked wide open, tearing a hinge from the metal frame.

A small part of him felt he should be disturbed by how easily he reached his magic these days. The rest of him was disappointed by the need for a gesture. He had it in him to flatten entire buildings with a thought, but he had deliberately lost the required discipline for that kind of precise magic a long time ago.

He found himself regretting his lapse of practice for the first time in nearly ten years. He told himself that this wasn't a slide into his old, depraved habits. He was simply too angry to focus on intricate enchantments or remember the words to a convoluted spell.

How fucking _dare_ the dragon put a compulsion on him?

Merlin _had_ it with being manipulated. He used to shrug it off as the price of doing business, but his few interactions with Arthur Pendragon had been enough to show him just how little control he had over his own life. How little _choice_. He hadn't even realized how bad it was until he confronted Arthur and --

And _nothing_.

Arthur didn't try to play him. Didn't even call him back. Just let him go, as if Merlin's choice was the most important thing in the world.

That freedom had left him lost. And now, it fuelled his rage, because Kilgharrah's compulsion had stripped him of everything, and he felt like a goddamned _slave_.

Merlin was pissed. He was so angry it radiated out of him in waves. How could he not have known how much he'd given up, before?

The club was still when he walked under the archway and into the main room. Patrons were crouched in an awkward state, unsure whether they should sit or if they should flee. Some of them saw Merlin and sat down as if dismissing him as a threat, but the others, the old school sorcerers and supernatural relics, they downed the last of their drinks and headed for the nearest exit as Merlin stalked across the club.

"Merlin!" Freya hissed. She hastily put down the bottle in her hand to wave him down.

Merlin ignored her and headed straight for Kilgharrah's office. The door was closed, as usual, but darkness suddenly fell across that wall, shrouding the entrance with the strongest Stay Away magic that Freya could muster.

He wasn't angry with her, so he left her magic alone. Kilgharrah, on the other hand --

This time, Merlin didn't need to gesture to open the door.

White hot rage cut through exotic wards and convoluted knotbolts, ancient oak and cold steel barricades. The door blew open with such force that the illusion of a simple bar owner's dank office shimmered and shattered, the false dull overhead light giving way to a distant fiery glow from below.

The office narrowed into a stone corridor with wind-carved rock walls and a downward slope that dipped another ten degrees every ten metres. The temperature increased, too, but Merlin couldn't feel the heat. His magic protected him in a swath of cool air by the time he squeezed through the claw-shaped crack at the dead end of the tunnel where flames burned bright and high beneath his feet.

 

 

 

 

Shadows flit across the cavern wall. Broken shapes became a tangible form as Kilgharrah came closer, setting himself lightly upon the stone that was his throne, the chain dangling from the shackle around his ankle clinking against the pile of gold and bleached skulls. Sulphuric fire burning from any number of makeshift fire-pits backlit the old dragon with an unholy, flickering aura, and the scorch marks on the wall only accentuated the long scratches in the granitic stone that had long been his prison.

Merlin breathed heavily. Kilgharrah tilted his head. Grey, scarred scales fluttered along his sides; his great crest flared before flattening against his neck. He lowered his head to Merlin's height, coming so close that Merlin could count the white flecks in the iris of a large, reptilian eye. His gaze was cold, measuring, critical.

The eye blinked in dismissal.

The dragon huffed a blazing breath that sparked against the cold air around Merlin's body, dissipating the remnants of the summoning that he'd cast to drag Merlin to him.

Merlin shuddered as the phantom claws dragged away from his body. He could feel the points digging into his shoulders, his spine, his chest, and though they faded, the sensation remained, as if reminding Merlin that he could be put under the dragon's thrall at any time.

The compulsion hadn't been easy to break and the remnants of the shattered spell had curled in on themselves like a triggered hunter's trap, spiking through Merlin like the sharpened spikes of an Iron Maiden cage.

"What… Do… You… Want?" Merlin bit out. The fiery pinpoints of pain coursing through his body slowly began to fade.

"The pleasure of your company," the dragon said. Kilgharrah reared back, settling upon his throne, tail swishing, wings fluttering. He tilted his head, mouth curling into a sly, smug smile. "Amongst other things."

Merlin brought both hands to his face. He knuckled his eyes until he saw white.

Merlin had pushed himself through London for the last few days and nights, searching out every wanderlusting angel and wayward demon. He clipped the wings of those who thought it _amusing_ to experiment with humans, exorcized the demons who possessed the innocent and not-so-innocent, and scattered a congregation of arrogant _nyam-an-mya'lak_ nephilim who, after a hundred years, still couldn't implement their plans to storm the Heavens to take their rightful place among the stars.

Distraction, pain, exhaustion -- those had been Merlin's goals. Anything to keep him from obsessing over Arthur _fucking_ Pendragon. Over a boy with too much power and too much baggage. Spoilt rotten. Wilful. Self-entitled.

It was easy to see how he would grow up to become the monstrous leader who would establish Hell on Earth. His future was being moulded by supporters and believers who had been waiting their entire lives for his arrival. The only roadblocks in his path were those put there by his enemies.

And yet --

 _Yet_.

When Merlin allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, when he closed his eyes and permitted his guard to drop, when he was alone with no one to watch him, he couldn't help the small little whimper acknowledging how much he _ached_. Arthur was a dangerous boy on the cusp of becoming a dangerous man, and if that was all that it was, Merlin would have no qualms about walking away, leaving Arthur to his fate, whatever it would be, at the hands of his enemies.

But there had been kindness in Arthur's eyes. Caring. Compassion. His touch alone had warmed the cold core of Merlin's soul, gentle and soft with a fragile heart, sincerely concerned that Merlin had come to harm in his name.

Merlin had been elbows-deep in the metaphysical body of a young girl, her skin like stone, beautiful features twisted by the demon that possessed her when he came to the realization that the man who would establish a Kingdom of Armageddon and Oblivion on Earth had _apologized_.

The antichrist wasn't supposed to apologize.

_"He is the Great Deceiver," the demon whispered, seeing the opportunity to seduce Merlin and to gain a stronger vessel than the body of a despoiled young girl. "The teller of lies. He is the Prince of Darkness, and one day he will rule on a kingdom of bones --"_

Merlin exhaled slowly.

He could still feel the demon's ephemeral taint on his hands. From the way Kilgharrah's nostrils were flaring, he could smell it.

"We can do the tea and crumpets later. I'm not in the mood," Merlin snapped. He turned for the thin crack in the rock face. "Next time, call."

"Arthur Pendragon," Kilgharrah said, his tone insufferable and all-knowing.

Merlin stopped cold. He turned slowly, keeping his expression blank. Of course, Kilgharrah would have divined what had sparked Merlin's usually unenthusiastic work ethic over the last few days. "What about him?"

"Step aside, young warlock," Kilgharrah said. "He is not your destiny. Allow matters to unfold as they will. The future is not yours to shape, and neither does it require your interference."

Merlin stared.

The dragon was self-serving on the best of days. A claw in every pot, a mouthpiece in every city, a pre-prepared pawn ready to be moved in place to alter events that would best benefit Kilgharrah's so-called _neutrality_.

Merlin had been that pawn one too many times, never realizing it until too late. But he'd learned his lesson in the intervening years since. Whenever Kilgharrah was involved, Merlin half-expected to be drawn into another plot where he would risk his life for the immediate reward of saving the world, while simultaneously and unknowingly contributing to Kilgharrah's long-term scheming and manipulation.

 _This_? This was at once a callous sign of Kilgharrah's alien nature and a blunt reminder that the dragon worked for no one's goal but his own.

"What?" Merlin asked. He laughed. "Seriously? Is your crystal ball broken? Did you miss the part where I took myself out of the equation?"

"I did not," Kilgharrah said.

"I'm doing exactly what you want me to do. I've stepped aside," Merlin said. He narrowed his eyes. "Why are you driving the point home? What do you --"

"You are tormented by your choice," Kilgharrah said. "Your decision is not set. The future is in flux. Arthur Pendragon bears the mantle of our destruction. That is no mystery to you. And yet, you question yourself. I offer clarity where yours is murked by your loins."

"Keep my loins out of this," Merlin snapped. He was well past the age when he was prone to making ill-advised decisions based on his dick's input, and no amount of fantasizing about Arthur would make him change his mind.

The _real_ Arthur, on his knees with his mouth around Merlin's cock? Merlin doubted he would make any sane decision in the aftermath. That was one reason why he'd walked away. He didn't trust himself around the boy.

"You are a pivot point," Kilgharrah said. A puff of smoke escaped his mouth as he spoke, barely a wisp, hardly visible. But Merlin had learned what the dragon's poker tells were, and this was a sure sign that he didn't like the cards he held in his grubby, _neutral_ hands.

"You've called me that before," Merlin said. The memory was old and faded, but stood in Merlin's memory, unable to be washed away by time because of how inextricably it was linked with the direction Merlin had taken with his magic when he was young.

He'd turned himself into a monster. A killer.

"That is what you have always been," Kilgharrah said, his voice dropping in volume, as if imparting a great secret. "A game changer. In the war that's coming, your presence will tilt the board. But when the board has too many sides, it is best for even the pivot to withdraw from the field."

Merlin heard what Kilgharrah didn't say: _There are too many sides and none of them are good for me._ What was good for the dragon, however, wasn't necessarily healthy for the rest of the world. He was about to say as much when Kilgharrah lowered his head, bringing it even with the ledge Merlin stood on.

"Allow the field to clash in a melee. Let the banners fall until it is time for you to play your role. Your destiny will not be complete if you show your hand too soon."

Merlin pressed his palms onto his closed eyes.

Push, push, push.

That was all that Kilgharrah ever did. Push and pull, tug and nudge. Vague proclamations, hollow accusations, blatant manipulation.

Push, push, push.

 _Fucking dragons._  
  
Merlin was falling down the rabbit hole, shoved through by an ever-present force that neither cared about his choice nor expressed concern about his well-being. The only thing that slowed his slow tumble into the fire-pit and into Hell's mercies was the fleeting sensation of a warm hand against his cheek, a gentle thumb over a scabbed cut, and the unexpected whisper of a sincere apology.

Arthur's soft, _I'm sorry,_ grew dimensions that Merlin hadn't fathomed at the time. He'd taken it for regret and guilt at having dragged Merlin into the line of fire, however inadvertently, and for getting him injured in the process.

But now, it resonated with the freedom of a choice -- the very same one that Kilgharrah had subtly taken from Merlin for as long as they'd known each other.

Maybe even before they'd met.

Merlin dropped his arms.

" _Your_ hand, you mean. Not mine," Merlin said, cold.

Kilgharrah drew back in confusion and tilted its head like a dog reacting to a particular keyword.

" _You_ don't want to show _your_ hand too soon," Merlin said. He gestured toward himself. "I've got nothing to do with this. I walked the fuck away. But you _summoned_ my arse and folded in a Devil's Trap for good measure to make sure I'd come, and I can't help but wonder why. The only thing that comes to mind is that you want to _use_ me --"

"Young warlock," the dragon interrupted, acrid smoke emanating from his mouth in earnest now, a slip of decorum that betrayed everything.

"It's my choice what I do. So take your so-called fucking _clarity_ and choke on it."

Merlin turned on his heel and stalked toward the crack in the stone wall. A tremendous roar reverberated through the cavern, and everything shook with the tremble of rage, stones and boulders falling and rolling, sheets of bedrock collapsing. The ledge shifted, pulling Merlin away from the exit.

"You will not," Kilgharrah said. The rest of the threat was left unspoken, hanging in the air -- _leave_ , _join the battle_ , _fight against me_. "You will lose."

Merlin scoffed. "What a beacon of neutrality you are. So much for never taking sides. But it was always about you, yeah? What you wanted, and fuck everybody else."

"You are not ready," Kilgharrah warned. Smoke curled from its mouth, and reptilian eyes glowed eerily through the haze.

"Ready for what?" Merlin asked.

Kilgharrah snorted, hot air blowing against Merlin's cold jacket. Magic connected with magic, reacting with a vicious, steamy hiss. The dragon tilted its head. He bared fangs, a body shudder running beneath the scales. His wings made a clacking, clicking sound. "The fool who plays a fool is nothing but a fool himself."

Merlin grabbed the edge of the exit.

"I warned against using your magic again," Kilgharrah said. "No good came of it before. No good will come of it now."

Merlin crawled through a crack that was far smaller than it had been the first time, gasping when he felt it close around him. He pulled himself out with a pulse of magic and fell back against the cold, dank corridor, panting at the tiny sliver in the rock face.

The great dragon roared, but it was from far away. The ceiling dusted down, but the ground didn't shift. "You're not strong enough --"

He turned around long enough to offer the dragon a cutting glare.

" _Fuck you_ ," Merlin snarled. His magic rose up with the same frightening speed as his anger, attacking the entranceway to Kilgharrah's cozy little cavern. White light flashed against gold and a burning heat flared at the seam, welding shut the metaphysical door into another dimensional realm.

Pivot point. Merlin would show him a goddamn pivot point. _Not strong enough_ \--

He clapped his hands together. The narrow corridor shuddered from the thunderous rumble. He buried his fingers in the softened walls on either side of the freshly-sealed claw wound in the stone and closed his eyes. His magic crested and crashed down, wild and reckless without focus, snatching the strongest _intent_ in Merlin's mind.

Magic battered the stone from both sides. White lines curled in the middle only to curl again to form eight spokes inside a circle to lock the metaphysical door on one side. Fire and flame lashed at the stone from within the dragon's prison, trying to saturate the stone before Merlin could complete the binding. The heat burned through Merlin's shields, licking at his palms, sinking through his bones, full of primal energy and unbound rage.

Merlin endured. Second by second. The heat turned the stone walls a bright, burning red. His magic blinded with white where the spirals curled into themselves and reached out to form a closed circle. He felt fire flaying his skin, melting fat and broiling muscle, but he ignored the pain. Raw power defied draconic magic that was older than time itself, and Kilgharrah's rage had nothing against the abyss of Merlin's hate.

The circle completed with the whistling whine of a lightning flash. Merlin stumbled backward, collapsing to the ground. The knotted wheel was a three-fold binding three times over, glistening with a white shimmer as the stone cooled down, and it was strong enough to barricade this door to the great dragon's realm, if only until it was unwound.

A residue of Kilgharrah's magic remained, fading quickly; Merlin's hands were fine, it had all been a very vivid illusion.

Merlin buried his face in trembling hands and wondered what he had just done.

He caught his breath after what felt to be an eternity and stood on uncertain legs. The corridor was silent, dark, damp; all of Kilgharrah's sheer _presence_ faded from the walls, replaced by the unearthly glow of the Taranis nine-fold knot.

A bad taste filled his mouth. The dragon would forgive him for this. Eventually. Maybe in a few centuries, after Merlin's bones were rotten and crushed to dust.

Merlin spat bile on the floor, because he didn't give a damn.

He turned and walked up the rise, heading toward the club, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He didn't know what he was going to do next, and…

It felt wonderful. He felt free.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _Hail Satan_ , bubbled up mockingly in Arthur's chest. He felt he should be rewarded for remaining stoic despite the ridiculous spectacle in front of him.

Anyone would have difficulty keeping a straight face when a man in red face-paint, plastic devil's horns, and exaggerated evil goatee tripped over the tangle of a long forked tail stuffed in cotton, tangling his legs in his shimmery red satin cloak on the way down. What nearly got Arthur was the way the man abruptly jumped to his feet, looked around to see if anyone had witnessed the debacle, and resumed his insouciant glide through the crowd.

Arthur covered his mouth with his fingers, biting down on his tongue, and tried to think of something else. Unfortunately, his mind invariably settled on Merlin, replaying once again how Merlin had simply…

Walked away.

Arthur shifted in his seat, all amusement gone.

 

 

 

 

A well-known and affluent stockbroker with one of the top London firms handled a small percentage of the Pendragon fortune with a guaranteed annual return in exchange for Arthur's occasional appearances at his invitation-only soirées. Arthur had wasted countless hours of his life that he would never get back sitting on an uncomfortable, exaggerated throne, usually presiding over rituals involving naked people on an altar.

He hadn't understood until he was seven or eight years old that the so-called celebrations thrown by Malcolm Worthington Tate were thinly veiled excuses for wild, repercussion-free orgies half-heartedly disguised as sacred satanic rituals. As a teenager long forbidden from participating, never mind tossing one off at the free fuck shows, Arthur had become so blasé about the human body and sex in its every incarnation that he amused himself by memorizing names, faces, dates, and preferences.

Arthur possessed a great deal of blackmail material on every single participant, and he couldn't use any of it.

Not yet.

All of his plans were stalled and he couldn't move forward until he re-engineered the very foundations of his future. If he proceeded regardless, or opted for less-suitable building materials, the kingdom he wanted to create would crumble within a few years instead of standing resolute for millennia. Arthur wanted to be angry, to lash out in frustration, but he could fault no one but himself for this rather spectacular…

 _Failure_.

Failure was too strong a word. Arthur wanted to say that it was an oversight, that he had merely misjudged Merlin's nature. He told himself that, no matter what, Merlin would always have refused Arthur. Arthur's only reassurance was that he was equally likely to refuse Morgana, should Morgana ever look past her own self-importance and realize how valuable it would be to have someone like Merlin standing at her side.

No. Ultimately, _failure_ was exactly what had happened, and Arthur had never failed before. He was discombobulated, and he didn't know how to move past it. Losing Merlin was far more crippling than anything Arthur's enemies could ever do.

A young woman with long, blond hair tied up in coquettish pigtails approached the raised dais and posed flirtatiously, pushing out pert breasts with pierced nipples. The breasts were lovely, but Arthur had been unwillingly presiding over these events since he was very young, and, honestly? He'd seen better.

He stared at her flatly, his expression never breaking. The woman, clearly new to the parties or she would never have approached Arthur in the first place, dropped her pose and moved away, discomfited.

Arthur exhaled in annoyance. He shifted in his seat, throwing a leg over the arm of the throne, and pulled his mobile out of his pocket, thumbing through the most recent slew of messages. One of them stood out. He called Leon.

Leon answered on the second ring. "How's the peep show?"

"No more disastrous than usual. One broken dick, second degree burns from candle wax on a nice pair of tits, and someone's hair caught on fire. On the bright side, the new Lord Minister has come out of the closet, and he seems to enjoy his current role as someone's darling little puppy," Arthur said. His tone dropped in volume, and he asked, "What was that text about?"

"Sorry, one second, I'll be right back," Leon said, clearly more for Arthur's benefit than for the company he was keeping. A door opened and closed, the rush of wind only momentarily drowning out the sounds of cars rushing past. "I don't know how legitimate the information is. Morgana would notice if we slipped someone new into her entourage, and we tried and failed to turn anyone who's already there. But the long and short of it? She's taken a page out of your playbook and has acquired herself a pet sorcerer."

Arthur's mouth thinned. "Who?"

"No confirmation on that yet, but Percival ran your database of names and aliases through the system. Morgause Gorlois flagged on a passport scan from a Paris flight. She's been here three days."

Although not in the top ten of sorcerers by any measure, Morgause nevertheless had made Arthur's most-watched list. She wasn't particularly powerful, but she was well-educated, extensively trained, and insanely resourceful. Strength alone wouldn't save her in combat, but she wasn't above dirty tricks or taking any advantage possible to gain the upper hand.

Arthur had never intended to recruit her. If anything, he would see her assassinated, first. Morgause's ruthlessness as a mercenary was eclipsed only by her bounty hunting kill ratio. She would have been more prone to trying to take Arthur's kingdom for herself than to help Arthur build it. If she weren't human, Arthur would have thought her to be one of the bloodthirsty berserking soldiers among Lucifer's Fallen.

"Arthur?"

"I'm here," Arthur said, rubbing his eyes with forefinger and thumb. He exhaled a weary sigh. "Find her. Track her. Be subtle about it -- if she notices someone's following her, they won't live long. I won't accept any more losses."

"I know," Leon said softly, no doubt thinking about Lancelot. There was still no word on what had happened to him, no trace of a body, no _sense_ of his essence, and the not-knowing had the rest of Arthur's people nervous and on edge. "Shall I have her taken out as soon as she's found?"

"You won't be able to," Arthur said, because he'd studied Morgause's movements and tactics. She was very conscious of her own security. Even a sniper would have difficulty hitting her through all the wards and shields she wore. "Keep an eye on her, and no more. If she makes contact with Morgana --"

"You'll know as soon as I do," Leon promised.

"Thank you," Arthur said, hanging up. He rubbed the side of his head, sighed, and thumbed through his email. He answered a few messages, including a worrying one from Reggie: _How do you clean blood stains out of cement? Asking for a friend_.

Arthur replied with a web link to Google and a short note. _Don't be a fucking idiot._

He played a few rounds of a bubble-pop game before boredom sank in again. He glanced over the crowd -- the tableau hadn't changed, though clearly partners had. There was no sign of the man wearing the devil costume, the woman with the tits was masturbating on someone's face, and the party host was across the large room, smoking a cigar as he chatted with Uther.

Arthur shifted in his seat, feigning indifference. He'd trained himself in the art of blanking out a long time ago -- it was a necessary self-preservation tool in these kinds of situations -- and he adopted the air of it, staring at a distant point on the wall.

Malcolm Worthington Tate was a fifty-something multimillionaire with gunmetal grey hair, thick eyebrows, and a manicured goatee designed to do something about his weak, underdeveloped chin. His chest was bare, his stomach stippled from a recent liposuction procedure, and his doctor would have done well to pay some attention to his sagging manboobs, too. The Roman-style kilt he wore was no doubt selected for easy access to the family jewels, but did absolutely nothing to flatter his pasty-white legs or his knobby knees.

The more Arthur studied him, the more he could read in the man's body language. He stood with his feet apart, a hand on his hip, his shoulders back. Clearly, it was meant to be intimidating, but the way he waved the hand holding the cigar in the air, he was extremely agitated.

Arthur turned to watch his father.

The contrast between the two men was striking, and it wasn't only a matter of numbers on their bank statements. Uther was easily the richest man in the world and undoubtedly also the most powerful. It showed in the way he dwarfed Tate not with physical height but demeanour, his personality filling the room. Though Uther's eyes crinkled with amusement, the look in his eyes was wry and shrewd, and his mouth was set in a firm line.

Uther had always treated these little soirées with the disdain they deserved. He understood that they undermined everything that he tried to do, but the deal he had made with Tate in the early years of their relationship, before Arthur was even born, made it so that Uther couldn't cast Tate aside as he so dearly wanted. Despite his personal opinion, Uther always tried to bring a little bit of class to the parties, dressing up to the nines in a tailored suit that was slowly dishevelled by questing hands and stained by body fluids as the night wore on.

Arthur checked the time on his mobile. It was ten minutes to one o'clock.

Uther had a very strict regime when it came to personal pleasure and enjoyment, even if they had to occur in a public place under scrutinizing eyes and while having no choice but to take someone else's sloppy seconds. By eleven o'clock, he would have had no fewer than three blowjobs from earnest young women who were all under the age of twenty. By midnight, he would have fucked at least one of the party regulars -- usually Mrs Patricia Wilson or Mrs Miriam Flynn -- and would be in some degree of undress.

By now, his shirt should be open. His belt missing. There should be stains on his trousers, since Uther rarely did anything more than to whip out his cock and plunge it in without so much as a _Hello_.

Uther Pendragon was as far from _rumpled_ as he could get. He might as well have just stepped out of the car, instead of having had been here for hours.

Arthur tapped the edge of his mobile against the arm of his seat.

Something wasn't right.

The woman with the tits was watching Arthur with a wry smile as a man in a zippered bondage mask thrust into her with mechanical precision. The devil cosplayer made a reappearance, leaning against the side door of the large hall. His red makeup was smeared, the horns crooked, and there was a leather-wrapped whipping stick twirling in his hands.

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"Hm."

He scanned the room slowly.

Women with cat-nails that glinted sharply in the dim light. Subtly-propped paddlers shaped like Billy clubs or spiked maces. Floggers tipped with the chrome of sharp edges, crops that were wider than normal, loop-handled knives artistically framing the cheese platter at the food bar.

Tate's satanic orgies pushed the boundaries of what was nominally a swinger's vanilla kink club, but that pile of restraints seemed to be larger than normal and disproportionate to the numbers in attendance.

Arthur slid his thumb across the lock screen on his phone, tapped in his code, and redialled the last number.

"Arthur?" Leon asked.

"You wouldn't have posted some men on me for the evening, would you?" Arthur asked, scratching a fingernail on the arm of the chair. He plucked a loose thread.

"Of course I have," Leon scoffed. He paused. "Why do you ask?"

"Send them in. Tell me when they're inside. I'll make my way to them," Arthur said. He hung up.

He drummed his fingers on the arm rest. He sat up properly and crossed and uncrossed his legs with the impatience of a teenager who didn't want to be there. Affected an uncaring demeanour, stared blankly at the far wall, and, every once in a while, watched one of the sex acts in action, all to continue to appear as if nothing was wrong. But the more he watched, the more he realized that the majority of the fucking was fake, there were more people talking than fucking, and there was an extraordinary amount of attention being cast his way.

Uther was nowhere to be seen. Tate had stubbed out his cigar and was observing the room with an unhappy look on his face, and it seemed to Arthur that Tate avoided looking in his direction.

As Arthur watched, a large, muscular man closed one of the doors to the room and stayed there, crossing his arms over his chest.

Arthur's mobile buzzed. He glanced at the screen before answering. "Where are they?"

"Get out," Leon barked. "Get out now. Our boys can't enter. The mansion is warded. I repeat, the mansion is warded."

Arthur ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach and forced himself to act natural. His heart pounded and his head buzzed, momentarily freezing him to the spot. Rage that the man who had raised Arthur as a son and reaped the benefits was now moving against him clashed with the fear-adrenaline that came with the feeling of helplessness. Arthur had not anticipated that this would happen. His spies among Uther's people had not informed him of anything out of the ordinary.

He had no contingency plans for this.

" _Arthur!_ " Leon hissed.

Arthur snapped out of the terror spiral, though not easily and not quickly, and he cursed when he realized that the crowd in the room seemed to have moved closer to him while Leon was trying to get him to leave.

"I'll make my way out. Have the men waiting," Arthur said, proud of himself for sounding calm and in control.

"Stay on the line," Leon said.

"Of course," Arthur said, but he dropped his hand and slipped his mobile in his trouser pocket. He forced himself to wait for a minute. Another.

And then, slowly, with a grimace, Arthur rose to his feet. He brushed a hand over his button-down shirt to smooth out the wrinkles and walked at a leisurely pace toward the side of the raised platform, descending the stairs.

It hadn't been his imagination. Everyone was watching him. Arthur raised an imperious eyebrow at them, and those nearest, conditioned by years of proximity and proper decorum, glanced away in an instinctive measure of respect. The rest didn't so much as twitch -- it was as if they didn't care about Arthur's status.

Or that they didn't know who he was.

Arthur huffed unhappily and continued to descend. He nearly dropped his mask of indifference when he made eye contact with Uther.

Uther must have taken the time to get himself cleaned up. He'd put himself to sorts once more and his suit coat was buttoned in preparation for a departure. The expression he wore was kindly, paternal, even indulging, but the downward turn of his mouth and the coldness of his eyes were jarring.

Uther glanced past Arthur and nodded sharply. Arthur turned around, ready to defend himself. He caught a glimpse of the devil in smeared reds and crooked horns, and --

Blackness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Seven long-necks littered a creased coffee table. The eighth beer dangled from Merlin's fingers, the bottom bumping against his knee.

The news was playing on the telly -- some slick-haired announcer reading commentary -- but Merlin had no idea what he was talking about. He was too busy trying to remember when he'd last gone out to buy himself a six-pack.

The refrigerator was full of ready-to-eat meals that were the homemade sort rather than the cardboard boxes out of Tesco's freezers. A metal bowl Merlin didn't remember owning was filled with Red Delicious apples. The bookshelves had been dusted within an inch of their lives, the bedclothes were freshly washed, and the threadbare towels were no longer threadbare, but brand new.

Merlin pressed the still-cool bottle of beer against a throbbing temple.

He thought…

Hell.

He didn't know what he thought.

He'd made the connection early on. The cleaned flat, the restocked refrigerator, the tailored clothing in his closet. His sudden and unexpected bonanza had begun at roughly the same time that Arthur Pendragon, the bloody _antichrist_ , walked into his life.

Maybe it was too much to hope for that Arthur would have accepted Merlin's _No_ gracefully. That he'd cut every ties and leave well enough alone. But it had been more than a week since Merlin had walked away from Arthur, and the daily visits of some unknown person continued.

While Merlin appreciated that they'd managed to scrub the dirty ring from the tub, there was nothing more disturbing than to reach over into his bedside drawer and discover that his personal supply of lube had been replenished.

He'd had enough. Enough of the constant break-ins, of having his privacy invaded, of being manipulated.

Clearly, Arthur hadn't gotten the message to leave him alone.

The rising sun was high enough in the sky to shine over the tall buildings that shadowed Merlin's flat, and the light cut through the tall windows --

 _Dear God_ , Merlin realized. Whoever had taken on the herculean task of keeping Merlin's residence clean and tidy, they'd even climbed up to polish glass that hadn't been washed since the building had been constructed in the nineteen fifties.

He drank the last of the beer, clinked the bottle next to the rest, and rubbed his head with the flat of his palms.

He pulled out three strands of hair, rubbing them together for a stout, coarse string. A knot, a pulse of magic, a breath of air. He murmured a forbidden name, added a pinch of _intent_ , and released the thread.

It disintegrated in a swirl of glittering lights that moved away from him, forming bone and flesh, gathering what little dust motes floated in the air to form illusionary clothing.

 

 

 

 

Merlin's doppelganger walked out the door. The door swung shut with a click, but it didn't lock. Merlin sensed the doppelganger's descent down the stairs and heard the grunt of effort that it took to open the rear door. He could almost feel the cold city wind on his skin, coughing in sympathy as the doppelganger choked on automobile exhaust from a lorry idling nearby.

The doppelganger went further and further away. Merlin should feel exultation, a cruel joy that he would capture Arthur's minion and terrorize them into never returning, but he could only feel…

Loneliness.

With effort, he pushed himself to his feet, knocking the coffee table. Two of the bottles fell, one going so far as to roll into the kitchen. He left them, stumbling toward the bathroom, disoriented by the detached sensation of walking down the pavement and into the busy city. He dodged a car coming at him, only to crash into the wall as his reward.

He stumbled into the bathroom and clenched the edges of the sink with trembling hands. The moment when the doppelganger finally disintegrated was one of clarity -- jarring and hallucinogenic, reverse colours and stark brilliance, shadows _click-click_ ing into place.

He threw up, rank beer and sour bile splashing onto the porcelain and dribbling down the drain. He wobbled, his legs weak, and stayed on his feet long enough to rinse out his mouth. He staggered over to sit on the toilet seat, his head between his knees.

Maybe a liquid lunch, followed by a liquid dinner, and finished off by a liquid breakfast had been too much.

Merlin waited for his stomach to settle. For his reality to realign. For the ache in his chest to fade.

The first two came in short order. The last would probably never go away.

He must have fallen to a doze, his face in his hands, because he stirred from the sound of someone humming contentedly. He hadn't heard the door open or shut, the wards didn't trigger, and --

Beer bottles clinked together and rattled around in a bucket. Paper crumpled and was shoved into a crinkly plastic bag. The intruder clucked their tongue, muttering under their breath in something that sounded like disapproval.

Merlin rose from the toilet seat, caught himself against the sink, and went to lean against the doorframe. Magic tingled protectively under his skin, but before he could focus on any kind of effect or bring voice to a spell, he was struck dumb by the sight in the main room.

The man was in his mid-twenties, with short, strawberry-blond hair and a freshly-shaven cheek. He wore pleated trousers, a white shirt rolled up to the elbows, a fitted plaid vest, and a blue cravat at his throat. He seemed incomplete, but Merlin spotted a jacket that had been neatly folded and draped over an armchair.

Merlin didn't recognize him. By all rights, he was an enemy. But he'd made it through the extra wards that Merlin had laid around the flat, which meant that he meant Merlin no harm.

He coughed.

The man jumped and whirled around, eyes wide. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air, only to clamp shut in the primmest gathering of decorum that Merlin had ever seen.

"Hello," he said. "I thought you were out."

"Never left."

Merlin reached for the hand towel. He ignored how soft it was to the touch. He wiped his face and tossed it in the sink to cover up the sick. When he looked up again, he half-expected the housekeeper he never hired to have inched toward the door, but instead, the man hadn't moved and was regarding Merlin curiously.

"You got a name?" Merlin asked.

"George. George Wagner." The tension in George's shoulders eased fractionally. "I could go and come back when you're not in. Or I could keep going if you don't mind me bustling about."

Merlin rubbed the side of his face. He gestured and half-shrugged. "Or you could go and never come back."

"Sir?" George asked, looking confused. "Why would I do that?"

"Because," Merlin snapped. His head throbbed and he had a sudden craving for the unhealthy hash fry-up at the diner down the street, but he didn't want to leave as long as George was invading his apartment. He definitely didn't want the man to come back after Merlin had left, either. In fact, he just wanted to be left alone.

He must have spoken out loud, because some understanding coloured George's features. "Oh, of course. I'll return tomorrow. There'll be more for me to clean."

George was absurdly happy by that prospect, and Merlin stared at him. "No."

"Wednesday, perhaps?" George's distress manifested in a severe frown and the ruddy colour flushing his cheeks. He fidgeted, looking around despairingly, before blurting out, "But, your flat will be _filthy_ by then!"

"Jesus _fucking_ Christ on a flaming pogo stick," Merlin muttered. He pushed away from the doorframe and headed to his kitchen. "Then it'll be filthy! I don't give a fuck."

George paled. "Have I done something wrong? Misplaced one of your knickknacks? I do apologize, I will pay better attention next time and do better --"

Merlin slammed a coffee cup on the counter, wincing when he felt it crack. The sound effectively silenced George from his tirade. "I've changed the locks four times. You keep breaking in."

George glanced at the door, a frown pinching his brow. "With all due respect, that was quite unnecessary. I have a skeleton key. You see, my father was a locksmith and quite a good one --"

"A skeleton key," Merlin grumbled. He reached for the coffee pot and dumped the old filter in the rubbish bin. Clumps of old coffee tumbled onto the floor. Merlin kicked them under the bench and ignored George's reedy whine of protest. "Do you know how many wards I've had to take down and rebuild because you keep _wiping them off_?"

George had at least the courtesy to look abashed. "The squiggles in the corners? Well, of course I cleaned them. The walls are appalling, it's as if you've never washed them. It would be best to give them a fresh coat of paint, and I'd be happy to arrange it. I didn't know you doodled on the walls in crayon, but, honestly, sir? I strongly recommend a sketchbook. I'll pick one up for you the next time I do a shop. Also, could I ask you to stop with the chalk marks on the brickwork? It took me forever to find the proper mixture of water and vinegar to erase them without damaging the stone, and I might have the ratio down, now, but it's a terrible job to undertake even at the best of times. Also, I have some good news. I believe I've finally sourced the right material to properly patch the gouges in the wood --"

"No!" Merlin spilled fresh coffee grounds all over the counter.

"Oh, dear," George said. He came toward the kitchen. "I can take care of that for you --"

" _Stop_ ," Merlin said, pushing magic into his tone. The low reverberation was usually enough to make a rampaging creature stumble in its tracks and had even made Kilgharrah stutter to a stop, once, but George, implausibly, seemed immune. He walked into the kitchen without hesitation, taking the brown paper bag of coffee grounds from Merlin's hands, effectively elbowing Merlin out of his way.

Merlin watched dumbly as George easily located the high-quality filters that had suddenly found their way into Merlin's cupboard one day, added a precise amount using measuring spoons that Merlin definitely didn't own, and added tap water to the basin after first running it to a finger-tested temperature. The coffee had barely begun to percolate when Merlin finally found his tongue, but he waited until George had wiped down the mess on the counter to say, "You're fired."

George froze. He turned around, wet rag still in his hand, shock slowly turning into cautious amusement. He laughed a bit.

"I'm not -- I'm not joking, damn it," Merlin said. "Get out. Don't come back."

"You can't fire me," George said, speaking with far more self-assurance than he really should have. "I don't work for you."

"This is my home. My name's on the bloody lease," Merlin said.

"I am… aware?" George said, ending the statement with a note of curiosity.

"I'll have you arrested you for trespassing," Merlin warned.

"Oh," George said, a flash of alarm fading far too quickly for Merlin's liking. "My employer owns the building. I am simply acceding to his request to ensure the tenants are well taken care of. Of course, you are currently the only tenant, but that hardly matters. I take pride in my work."

"What?" Merlin snapped. The lights in the flat flickered, rising and ebbing with the flare of anger that wasn't just increasing, but cresting, dragging his magic along with it.

Merlin was furious. Arthur had manoeuvred himself into Merlin's life. He'd invaded Merlin's space without even being there. He had taken it upon himself to supervise Merlin's business. Worst of all was how he had tried to manipulate Merlin into a situation where Merlin would find himself wanting to protect Arthur from the dangers he faced.

And to discover that Arthur had invaded to this extent?

Merlin's temper reached its upper register, only to collapse uselessly, his strength withering. He sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead in resignation.

He turned away. He spotted his mobile and picked it up. "What's Arthur's number?"

"Why?" George asked, eyes narrow.

"Because I'm going to tell him to fire you," Merlin said.

George glanced down, chewing his bottom lip, and tilted his head jerkily as if having an argument with himself. His fingers drummed the air as if he were dialling the number himself, and whatever internal argument he was having came to an abrupt end when Merlin rapped impatiently on the kitchen counter.

"His number," Merlin insisted.

"Very well," George said. He recited the number, repeating it a second time when Merlin asked. Merlin thought it was cruel of him, but he made George look at the number on his mobile to confirm it.

He rang it through. The number rang and rang.

"I'm not sure you'll get through," George said. He twitched, pulling at his vest, and turned to fuss with the coffee maker when it beeped.

"It's Sunday, right?" Merlin asked. "He's not in school or anything like that?"

"Oh, no," George said. He stared at the far wall in consideration. "I'm not privy to his schedule, of course, but he normally reserves his Sundays for personal matters."

"Of course he does," Merlin said, pinching his brow. The phone continued to ring. And ring and ring. "He's not answering."

George poured a cup in a mug that wasn't the one Merlin had broken, and asked, a faint tremble in his voice, "Sugar and cream?"

Merlin hung up the phone and called again. It rang and rang. "Did you give me a fake number?"

"I wouldn't do that, sir," George said. He caught himself with a horrified hand on his chest. "I mean, I wouldn't give Mr. Pendragon's phone number to just anyone willy-nilly, but you're a special case, I understand. Not that I would know, not really. I haven't been instructed on what to do if I happened to encounter you outside of the parameters of my duties, but I do like to imagine that Mr. Pendragon would like me to carry on as normal. The way he speaks of you, I know that Mr. Pendragon wouldn't mind it if I gave you his number. If it were anyone else, I would simply bite my tongue and swallow it --"

" _George_ ," Merlin growled. He hung up the phone angrily. "Why isn't he answering?"

George bit his lower lip. He cleared his throat noisily. "It could have something to do with the kidnapping."

The world stuttered.

A persistent drop of percolated coffee splashed into the carafe. The sun rose higher and split into a tangential glow where it struck the mirrored surface of the building across the street and burned through cracked glass. A shadow shifted, glinting with the menace of bared teeth, and faded as a car drove past on the street below.

Merlin's world tilted. It shouldn't -- it shouldn't have. Arthur didn't have that much of an impact on Merlin. Merlin told himself that he didn't give a damn.

Except that he did.

"Kidnapping?" Merlin asked, his voice cold, emotionless, detached.

"Uh, yes. Yes, sir. I'm afraid that's correct. Just yesterday, I believe," George said. He broke eye contact and focused on the cup of coffee on the counter, and asked again, "Coffee and cream?"

"Black," Merlin said, and something inside of him loosened, leaving him unhinged. He could hear the cruelty in his own voice when he invited, "Pour yourself a cup. I believe… you and I need to have a chat."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I know you're awake. You may as well open your eyes."

Arthur heaved a put-upon sigh. He straightened in his seat with great difficulty given that his arms were wrenched behind the back and bound in some way, and raised his head. He took a moment to wipe the drool that had dribbled down his chin from the ball gag. He raised both brows and tilted his head, impressing his annoyance in the only way he could.

The man sitting in a chair on the other side of the cell was dressed like a wild game hunter and carried himself with the same arrogant air of someone who regularly killed rare golden tigers from the safe roost of an elephant's back. His blond hair, white at the temples, was slicked back with a thick pomade that retained comb marks. A short, neatly-trimmed goatee gave him the appearance of a circus ringmaster.

He even had a whip coiled at the hip.

"Do you know who I am?" the man asked, blowing blue-grey cigarette smoke out of his nostrils. He waved a hand in the air dismissively. "I quite understand if you don't. Teenagers these days rarely pay attention to anything beyond their own self-serving interests. Music. Television shows. The latest gossip. Drugs. Sex."

Arthur knew who the man was. He wasn't stupid. In his extensive cataloguing of men and women of significant power, there was one person who consistently interfered with their often ambitious plans for world domination. Much in the same way that Merlin had once made it his business to hunt down angels and demons in equal measure, removing them from this plane of existence should they bring harm to mankind, the Witchfinder went out of his way to capture and eliminate sorcerers.

If the urban legends were even remotely true, Aredian Marais hunted his prey with the exactitude of a psychopath. Considering that the rumours insisted on his propensity to collect trophies from the bodies of his victims, Arthur wouldn't be surprised if Aredian was actually one of the world's most wanted serial killers.

However, since Arthur wasn't in Aredian's preferred demographic, he had to wonder why he'd been targeted. Similarly, he had to question how his father had come to make his acquaintance, because the shadow lurking just outside the corridor behind Aredian roughly approximated Uther's frame.

"I've come to understand that you've been quite the delinquent child," Aredian said, taking another drag of his cigarette. "You don't pay attention to your lessons. You engage in vile, perverted sexual acts and defile your person. You defy the man who has been your guardian all these years and who has given you everything that you could ever want."

Arthur tilted his head. If he were inclined and able to protest, it would be to correct that he had, in fact, been paying attention to his lessons. Instead, he remained motionless, favouring Aredian with a cold glare.

Aredian dropped the remnants of his cigarette. He shifted slightly and stubbed it out with his foot. He uncrossed and crossed his legs.

"I don't usually engage in these sorts of activities, you understand. But you've been a very naughty boy. Gathering blackmail material on important government officials. Subsuming your guardian's very own company holdings and transferring them to you. Neglecting your duties --"

Aredian waved a hand again and scoffed. He laughed a mockingly.

"It's all very technical and detailed. I don't particularly care for the details. One might dismiss all your indiscretions as typical teenage rebellion, even _gumption_. If you were my son, I would have had you whipped within an inch of your life by now, and I would have repeated the lesson as often as required to ensure that the lesson was learned.

"You are not my child, however, and as I understand it, the situation is quite…" Aredian paused, raising his chin and glancing at the ceiling thoughtfully. He pursed his lips several times, as if tasting a word or a phrase on his tongue, and when he spoke again, it was with sharp eyes and a cold tone. "Extraordinary."

Arthur couldn't stand the man. On paper, he was a cold-blooded killer. Meticulously prepared, capable of elaborate schemes, somewhat artistically inclined, if the displays using what remained of the body were anything to go by. In person, he was so bloody full of himself that Arthur was mortally offended just to be in his presence.

He wanted Aredian dead. Normally, when he wanted something to happen, it happened. Why wasn't Aredian dead?

"Now, I am not one to counsel another in how they raise their child. If one wants to spoil them or spank them, well, that's up to the parent, isn't it? Having no child of my own precludes offering any useful advice and would be quite hypocritical. However, I have been informed of some very delightful news."

Aredian smiled. He pointed at Arthur.

"You are the antichrist."

Arthur rolled his eyes to cover up the sensation of dread sinking in his belly. Somehow, Aredian's declaration was far more ominous than when Merlin had said the same thing. Aredian's words were a revelation, an accusation, and a sentence all in one breath, condemning Arthur as surely as all of Aredian's other victims had been condemned.

"I have been tasked with the responsibility of bringing you to heel," Aredian said.

The coldness in Aredian's eyes and the flat tone of his voice sent a chill down Arthur's spine. He couldn't help but imagine what Aredian left unsaid -- that Aredian would much rather do much, much more. Arthur swallowed hard.

"Re-education is a specialty of mine, though I don't get to implement it nearly as much as I would like. I favour a long, laborious process, though I admit it is not the best nor the most successful. But I have given my word that I would do all that I can to break your will and remould it. Your guardian wishes for you to be a puppet, my boy, and a puppet you will be."

Arthur managed a snort.

"You don't believe me?" Aredian said. His cocksure smile accompanied a quick gesture pointing to the ground.

On the floor was a dizzying pattern of lines and circles that Arthur couldn't identify from his vantage point. Within the weave was a circle in thick, bold lines that was likewise criss-crossed with thinner lines linked to the pattern. The chair he was sitting in was within the confines of the circle, bolted down to the floor.

"Do you know what that is?" Aredian asked. His shoulders shrugged in something like excitement, unable to contain himself. Since Arthur couldn't speak, he went ahead and answered his own question. "It's Metatron's Cube."

 _Metatron_ was a familiar name, but beyond being an angel of Heaven lucky enough to be within God's inner circle, Arthur had never heard the name associated with a _cube_.

If Aredian expected Arthur to react at the revelation, Arthur was pleased to disappoint. While he was annoyed that he couldn't identify the obvious ward on the floor, he was at least rewarded by a deep frown on Aredian's face when Arthur offered him an insouciant shrug.

Aredian turned his head to glance over his shoulder, his expression one of disapproval. When he settled to face Arthur again, his eyes were half-closed with irritation. He studied his fingernails before dropping his hands with a long-suffering sigh.

"I don't know what I expected," Aredian said. "Not a doctorate in religious studies. You're too young. And even then, whilst you might understand the significance of Metatron's Cube, you wouldn't be able to appreciate its intricacies. Clearly, what you lack in obedience, you make up for in ignorance."

Arthur glanced down at the floor again. From his vantage point, the Cube looked like a bunch of disorganized lines and random circles. As far as he could tell, it wasn't remotely shaped in a square, even though it was enclosed within the confines of a cubic cage.

"Suffice it to say that Metatron's Cube will keep you safely confined. And if you try to use your powers to escape, well…" A shrewd glint sparkled in Aredian's eyes. "Please do. The literature available on the prophesied antichrist is so vague as to border on outrageous speculation. I am interested in seeing what you can do."

Arthur raised a brow. Several choice words came to mind, but as long as he was bound and gagged, he had no choice but to sit in the uncomfortable steel chair and be treated as nothing more than a specimen for study.

He suppressed a growl.

Aredian was silent for a moment, meeting Arthur's eyes easily. He gestured over his shoulders and behind Arthur toward the upper corners of the windowless room. "Surveillance cameras. Someone will be watching you every minute of every hour, day in and day out. We shan't miss a thing."

When Arthur didn't so much as blink, Aredian heaved a put-upon sigh. He uncrossed his legs and stood up slowly, as if unfolding himself. He wasn't particularly tall, nor did he have any kind of imposing presence, but an ice cold chill ran down Arthur's spine as Aredian studied him with blank, empty eyes.

"Submission is your only recourse. But please…" Aredian's smile was twisted and gleeful. "Resist. I shall be extremely disappointed if you don't."

In absence of a rude rejoinder, Arthur raised his chin in defiance.

"Ah, yes, I thought so. Good." Aredian turned and walked toward the far door. He didn't look back as he said, "I will give you a moment with your guardian before we begin."

Arthur couldn't make out what was on the other side of the door. He could see nothing more than a darkened corridor with dim lighting encroaching from both ends. A shadow on the floor shifted anxiously, only to be dwarfed when Aredian filled in the space of the door. A few words were quietly exchanged, and Aredian turned left, striding purposefully away.

He heard a distant drip. The scuff of a shoe on the concrete floor. The shadow congregated in front of the door.

Arthur noted dispassionately that Uther still wore the same suit that he had the night of the orgy. He couldn't have been unconscious for that long, then. Leon had been alerted and the men watching Arthur must have tracked them to this place. Surely Arthur's escape was imminent.

"We killed your bodyguards," Uther said, as casually as if he were referring to the weather. "They rushed Tate's house and sprung our traps. Two of your abominations were captured and slaughtered. The remainder managed to avoid triggering the confinement wards, but a blessed bullet to the head took them down easily enough when they tried to follow. Were they human? A shame if they were. Those bullets were blessed by the pope himself."

A low, angry growl escaped Arthur's chest even as what little hope he had for his rescue was demolished.

Uther made a disapproving sound. "We talked about the growling, Arthur. It's not polite. I had hoped that you would outgrow your animal tendencies."

Arthur stopped growling, but only because the gag was making him drool again. He didn't give Uther the satisfaction of watching him wipe his chin.

"Look at you," Uther murmured. He walked into the room, taking his time. He tilted his head to glance at the cameras, to study the dimension of the cage, to note the markings on the floor. He stopped short of the chair and put his hands in his pockets. "All that money spent on the best of tutors. All that time wasted. I had such plans for you, Arthur, but you've delayed them at every turn. For what purpose? To spite me? To sow chaos and destruction? I understand that it's your nature to do so. But there is no benefit to you."

Arthur tilted his head. There was every benefit for Arthur. Undermining Uther. Quietly shifting the Pendragon holdings to Arthur's name and control. Forging and replacing Uther's Last Will and Testament with one of Arthur's doing, subtly changing the leavings. A tremendous paper trail of legal magnitude, and Uther had no idea, because he rarely accessed his safety deposit box at the bank and didn't know that there were scattered large accounts in Arthur's name in Geneva, in the Maldives, in the Bahamas -- all of which were slowly absorbing Uther's fortune.

It was a shame that Uther was distracted by the more obvious theatrics that Arthur had engineered. Sometimes, Arthur wondered if Uther truly understood what was going on in the world.

Uther exhaled. His mouth formed words around clenched teeth. He was clearly agitated and didn't know how to express his feelings, which came as no surprise. Uther was the most emotionally constipated man that Arthur had ever known.

"There can be only one world leader. One," Uther said. His body trembled, his hands clenched, colour flushed his cheek. "It will not be you. You are a child. A figurehead. Nothing more. I did not sacrifice your mother to the ritual for nothing. You will follow my footsteps, or you will be damned for it."

Arthur closed his eyes.

His mother was a sacred memory that he didn't have, built on hoarded photographs and paintings that had been torn from the walls and cast into the fire. Faded pictures of a time gone by, before Arthur was even born. Before he was even conceived. A young Ygraine smiling at the camera, her blond hair in soft, sun-kissed waves. Her flower dress catching in the wind as she bounced away from the photographer with a teasing grin. A flower crown of daffodils across her brow as she blew a kiss to someone off the screen.

No one spoke of Ygraine Dubois-Pendragon. Her name wasn't so much as whispered behind cupped hands. Nanny after nanny hushed a baby boy asking for his mother. People looking away when he cried for her. The stout slap across his face when he'd dared ask Uther if he could visit his mother's grave.

There were those who would claim that the antichrist couldn't understand human emotion, that he couldn't express it. That was probably true. Growing up in isolation with an absent father-guardian insisting on a strict, disciplinarian upbringing had left Arthur detached, distant, and cold.

But he had grown up with the idea of love. Of loving a mother who would never have treated him unkindly. Who would have held him to her breast and sheltered him from harm. Who would have wiped all of his tears of suffering, even those that Arthur never showed.

What he wouldn't have done -- what he wouldn't do! -- to have someone love _him_. Not the idea of him. Not the power that Arthur's existence could bring.

Uther might not have spoken Ygraine's name, but he invoked the spirit of a woman who had been Arthur's only refuge as a child, even if only in his mind. And in raising her from buried memories that had grown from a handful of old photographs hidden in a shoebox beneath Arthur's bed, Arthur found the strength to cast all pretence aside.

When Arthur opened his eyes, it was to a red tint at the edge of his vision and the calm stillness that came across the surface of a lake right before the storm.

He smiled around the ball gag.

 

 

 

 

He held Uther's gaze. He watched as Uther grew more and more unsettled, twitching and shifting where he stood. Uther started to say something else, only to clamp his mouth shut and leave the room without another word.

Arthur stopped smiling. He let his hate fuel his strength and pulled his arms apart. The handcuffs bit into his wrists, the edges pinching and cutting skin. He strained, biting into the rubber ball. His hands grew damp with sweat, sticky with blood dripping down from deepening cuts. His bones ached and the pain numbed his rage, but he continued to pull.

A link, a single, weak titanium link, snapped open. Arthur wrenched his arms and surged to his feet, intent on leaving. No one -- absolutely no one, not the man who pretended to be his father, not the bloody _Witchfinder_ \-- kept him prisoner.

He tore the ball gag's straps and threw it across the room. It bounced harmlessly on the other side of the steel cage.

He crashed into the inner circle of Metatron's Cube. A flash of blue light and silver thundered through him, shoving him back. He pounded uselessly against the barrier, jolted and electrified each time.

He dropped bloody, bruised, burned hands to his sides. The pale glow flickering in the corridor taunted him with a freedom he couldn't reach.

Arthur tossed his head back and roared.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Bad luck, mate."

Merlin groaned. The absolute last person Merlin wanted to see was Mordred, but of course, _here he was_. The incubus might not be able to feed off of chaos, strife, and pain, but he was drawn to it and used ragged emotions as an aphrodisiac.

Merlin rolled over onto his side away from the demon, moving slowly and deliberately. It didn't matter how he moved, because everything _fucking hurt_.

The scrape on his forehead dragged over fine gravel. His mouth swelled where the thug's knuckle ring caught him on the lip. The footprint on his chest was probably permanent, and the slight crackle in his lungs when he breathed was problematic.

Merlin considered walking in to A&E. He changed his mind when he realized that would require _walking_. He was fine where he was. He'd heal, if he didn't bleed to death first.

Knee-high buckle boots appeared in the edge of his vision.

"Go away."

Mordred pinched his trousers and crouched down. "You bloody numpty. You could've had them. They were human."

"Are… Are you sure about that?" Merlin coughed.

Mordred scratched the scruff on his jaw. He wore jeans torn at the knee, a shirt that was at least two sizes too small, and a canvas jacket better suited for a balmy spring in Spain than the dour, wet fall in London. His hair was a tangle of curls, his eyeliner was a bit smeared, and the amused smirk on his face did absolutely bollocks for Merlin's mood.

"The first two, definitely. Not so sure about the last. Large fellow, that one. He might've been part troll," Mordred said. He wrinkled his nose. "Or he might just need a wash. Hard to tell."

Merlin rolled the other way. The momentum put him on his hands and knees. He wasn't sure how, but he managed to push himself to his feet, wrangling for balance against the rough brick wall of a nearby building. He gave Mordred a long look. "What do you want?"

Mordred stood up. He pushed the sleeves of his jacket to his elbows and approached Merlin slowly, holding out his hands as if to show he meant no harm. He pulled a handkerchief from an inner coat pocket, folded it up, spat in it, and dabbed at the scrape on Merlin's head. Merlin shoved him away when all Mordred did was grind the gravel deeper into the wound.

"The same as you, of course, though I have far less altruistic reasons," Mordred said. He looked at the blood on the handkerchief with a tiny, considering frown before offering it to Merlin. Merlin took it warily and wiped the blood and dirt from his face.

Merlin waited for an explanation.

"You're daft today," Mordred sighed. "I'll be plain, shall I? Here you are, battering yourself in a quest to rescue the love of your life before it's too late --"

"I don't --"

 

 

 

 

Mordred put a finger over Merlin's mouth, silencing him. "Love taints the meat. I can't stand the stink of it even on a good day, and it absolutely reeks on you. It's not too terrible yet, but it'll get worse, I can tell. It might not kill me if I taste your essence now, but Arthur might."

"What," Merlin said around Mordred's finger, confused.

Mordred raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for Merlin to catch up. Incubi didn't feed from people who were in love. The emotion was poison to them -- not strong enough to kill, but enough to incapacitate for a few days. Merlin wasn't --

He tilted his head, trying to decide if Mordred was fucking with him. Arthur was, at best, a crush. At worse, an _infatuation_. Merlin didn't believe in that whole _love at first sight_ myth, and no one in history had ever come up with a love potion that worked, so he was safe on those two fronts, at least.

Mordred didn't so much as flinch, and while the incubus could be a little shite, holding back information and telling half-truths, he had never actually _lied_ to Merlin. If he wasn't lying, then…

Merlin felt dizzy. He shook his head to clear it. In no universe was Mordred right about this. He couldn't possibly be in love with a teenager who was the prophesized embodiment of all evil, destined to bring about the End of Times and the apocalypse, and in the ruins, would raise a kingdom touted to be Hell on Earth.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Merlin protested, because he _couldn't_ be. Wank fantasies did not equate love, no matter how convoluted and involved they were.

Mordred slapped him in the head before he could finish, and the blow was hard enough to make Merlin's head ring. "Don't. Accept the potential and move on. He's good for you."

He grabbed Merlin's face, fingers digging painfully in the crook of his jaw. Mordred's eyes were perpetually tinged with the lavender ring of low-grade arousal, but as he took a deep breath, the colour faded to the dull brown of distaste.

"Absolutely disgusting," Mordred sneered. He dropped his hand. Merlin sagged against the wall. Mordred gestured at Merlin's person and said, "You were doing so well, too. Nearly back to your old self. Then your boy goes missing, and what do you do? This self-flagellation bollocks? Do you really think you can save him like this?"

"I don't think I can save him at all," Merlin snapped, focusing on the only thing that he could understand. He spat a glob of bloody saliva to the ground. "The Witchfinder has him."

Mordred stilled.

His eyes flared purple, now, solid and terrible, though the glow had nothing to do with arousal. Alarm had struck the incubus where he was, paralyzing him with fear, but he shook himself out of it long enough to slowly turn toward the mouth of the alley where Merlin's attackers had gone.

"And you know this, how?" Mordred asked, his voice flat. The note of seduction that made a permanent residence in his tone was gone, now, and Mordred almost seemed… human.

Merlin sagged against the wall. He sank down to the ground. His body throbbed from the blows, his head pounded from Mordred's strike, and his magic scratched under the surface of his skin. Of all those, there was only one thing that Merlin could do, and that was to release the iron grip on his magic, allowing it to heal him.

"A bird at the immigration office. Owes me a favour," Merlin said. He shrugged.

He'd exorcized a poltergeist from her flat she adamantly refused to give up, despite the destruction of her personal property and escalating attacks. The poltergeist hadn't gone easily, but the woman had been more than happy to put flags on the names from Merlin's personal watch list as part of the payment.

"Aredian showed up in town a few days before Arthur went missing. Anyone who might catch his eye in London is deep underground and they've all checked in." Merlin rubbed the side of his head gingerly, picking some gravel out of the scrape.

 _Checked in_ implied he was on speaking terms with the sorcerers of London, but he'd wasted the better part of a day tracking some of his contacts to do the footwork for him. Information had been slow to trickle in, but it _had_ come in, giving him something more than his fruitless magical attempts. The cat gut auguries had been jumbled, the chicken bones silent, the crystal over the seeking waters blank with fog. Aredian was holding Arthur someplace secure and was hiding them all from questing eyes.

Without any other recourse, Merlin had been forced to take the traditional route. Surveillance on the Pendragon property, stalking Arthur's school to speak to his friends, pressuring his contacts to keep their eyes out. It had taken too long to get any information whatsoever, and Merlin's half-arsed confrontation with Aredian's thugs had been the only thing he could think of on the fly.

It wasn't his fault. Arthur had been missing for nearly a week. Aredian could do -- _would do_ \-- anything, and having seen the aftermath of more than one of Aredian's successful hunts, Merlin couldn't bear thinking what might be happening to Arthur. If Arthur was even alive.

Merlin was desperate, and he wasn't ashamed to admit it.

"If Aredian's in London, stands to reason, he's here for _someone_." Merlin shrugged. "Could be anyone."

"Arthur," Mordred said. He sniffed the air, tilting his head with interest as he eyed Merlin, and Merlin knew the moment Mordred sensed magic. Mordred pointed toward the mouth of the alley but didn't look away from Merlin, a hungry look filling his eyes. "And that delightful lot? The ones going around randomly beating the shite out of people?"

"I might've insulted their mothers, knocked over their beers, and knifed the tyres of their cars," Merlin said. He spread his hands in a half-hearted shrug.

"But why would you --" Mordred's eyes snapped to Merlin's face. Understanding came to him quickly, and his expression brightened in a big smile. "You tagged them. They're Aredian's men, aren't they?"

Merlin nodded tiredly, wincing when his magic snapped a broken rib back into place. He sat up straight, stiffly, and blew out a slow breath, quickly categorizing his injuries. The worst had been taken care of and all that was left were the bruises and superficial cuts. He stood up, leaning against the wall, and dismissed his magic from doing more. He had a feeling he would need his strength.

He fished in his pockets for his keys, coming up with a few scratched coins and the round peppermint candies from the pub down the road. He tossed one to Mordred, who caught it and studied it with interest.

Electronic trackers were too easily detected, discarded and destroyed. Magical tags had a tendency of being obvious since they needed to be applied directly, and it was hard to do without that person noticing. But the coins and the candies? Those were commonplace objects that Aredian's men could have picked up anywhere, except for the U-turn arrow Merlin had carved on each of them.

Mordred's grin widened. Mischief and chaos were his stock and trade when he wasn't fucking his way across London, and little tricks like these tended to amuse him. "Ingenious. I do apologize. I didn't give you enough credit."

"Your turn," Merlin said, his voice dropping low and dangerous. "I never told you Arthur's name. I never told you about him, full stop. Do you want to explain why you care about some random kid?"

Mordred blinked slowly, recognizing that he was in a trap. He tilted his head, acknowledging the warning in Merlin's voice, and said, "I could tell you that Arthur is a fantastic shag, particularly talented at glory hole blowies, but something tells me I wouldn't survive an encounter with the Executioner."

Merlin raised a brow, but the taunting tease and attempt to foster jealousy was so typical of Mordred that Merlin couldn't put any stock in the declaration. He crossed his arms over his chest, ignoring the twinge of a still-throbbing muscle in his upper back, and waited.

"Suffice to say that he sought me out and pays me well," Mordred said. He shoved his hands in his coat pockets. "I have a vested interest in his survival. Something tells me that life would be a whole lot easier for me if he continues the way he has."

There was much that Mordred left unsaid, disguising motives and agendas behind cryptic words and vague admissions, and Merlin found that he didn't care. Whatever Mordred wanted, Merlin had other, pressing business to get to. He turned deeper into the alley.

"I'm not the only one who wants to rescue him," Mordred said, falling into step besides Merlin. "We should band together. A frontal assault, perhaps. I haven't had a good mauling in _ages_."

" _We_?" Merlin asked, shooting Mordred a sidelong glance as they emerged on the other end of the alley.

"I think it's bollocks, you know. _I don't think I can save him at all_ ," Mordred said, a perfect mimicry of Merlin's earlier words. "Is it any wonder that Kilgharrah's so afraid of you, he's been trying to kill you since the first day you met."

Merlin looked at him sharply.

"Oh, yes. Since the very beginning," Mordred said. "And when that failed, he did the only thing he could. He manipulated you. He controlled you. You think it's on you that Will died? It's the bloody lizard's fault, not yours. _He set you up_."

Merlin blinked. He heard what Mordred said, but the words weren't sinking in. The words weren't so much an accusation as a statement of fact, and that fact collided with a guilty conscience so large, it easily overshadowed Kilgharrah's culpability.

"Yeah?" Mordred raised his eyebrows. He leaned in. "Look at me. I've gotten one over you a few times, I've kept my damn gob shut when I knew you wouldn't listen, but never once have I ever _lied_ to you. This? You're finally getting your head out of your arse and it's time you knew what really happened back then. Kilgharrah wants you dead. He underestimated you before, thinking you'd be easy. As far as the bloody lizard was concerned, Will didn't even ping his radar. He didn't even rate being called collateral damage."

Merlin opened his mouth. He closed it with a click when he didn't have any words to say.

Mordred's hand came down hard on Merlin's shoulder. It twined around Merlin's neck and squeezed comfortingly. "I know what you're feeling. Believe me, I do. But you've got Kilgharrah under lock and key, and with that shackle on his ankle, he's not going _anywhere_. So, take your time. Plan your revenge. Make it painful and drawn-out and as merciless as I know you can."

Merlin tried to pull away from Mordred, but Mordred held him tightly. The incubus didn't use his full strength often, but he used it now, getting so close that Merlin could see the lavender in his eyes glowing bright.

"Right now, though? I'm pretty fucking sure you want to get your boy back. And if the _Executioner_ can't make short work of the Witchfinder, I'll swear off feeding from the under-eighteens and take it easy on the old age home for a _month_."

Mordred let Merlin go. Merlin rocked back on his heels, feeling breathless, as if he'd just been fast-talked out of his free will by a charming snake-oil salesman. Mordred could manipulate even the most hardened sceptic to eat out of the palm of his hand, and Merlin couldn't help feeling that was exactly what had happened here.

He wanted to be angry. To turn and walk away. To run away to a tropical island where he could leave all this behind. No more of being tricked and used. No more listening to lies and half-truths. Merlin had no idea if anything Mordred was telling him was true, but with the perfection that was ten years' worth of guilty hindsight, Merlin couldn't see the lies, either.

Mordred nodded knowingly and stood back with a smirk that faded as he glanced past Merlin and waved a hand as if he were calling a cab.

"Don't make me lose my bet. I'm a hungry man. Starving, really. Just in case, you should have backup."

A black sedan down the road flashed its headlights, pulled out of its parking spot, and came to a rolling stop next to the kerb. The windows were tinted, and the glare of a nearby streetlight made it hard to see who was inside.

But Merlin could _sense_ them.

There was a special essence associated with angels and demons and everything in-between. But for angels and their get, it was rich like honey-sweet manna from Heaven, bitter and biting with the sulphur scorch of Hell. Attraction and repulsion in a single, unmistakeable sensation, sliding along a gradient between two opposites. The people in this car, they fit right in the middle of the spectrum, and were pale shades compared to their full-blood sires.

Nephilim.

Merlin clenched his hands, magic burning around raw knuckles still sore from the fight with Aredian's men, barely containing an instinct to tear the grace they'd inherited from their bodies and to leave them to rot.

The window rolled down.

"That's Gwaine at the wheel. Percival in the back. And this serious mug is Leon," Mordred said.

Gwaine nodded a greeting and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel with a hint of nerves. Percival sat stock still, staring straight ahead. Leon's mouth was in a tight line, and despite the intensity in his eyes, there was no small measure of apprehension and fear.

"You boys going to play nice?" Mordred asked.

The staring match lasted several strained seconds more before Merlin found his voice. "You work for Arthur?"

Gwaine half-shrugged. Percival didn't move from where he sat in the back seat. Leon shook his head. "He's my friend."

The nephilim's tone was heartfelt and honest. It made something break inside of Merlin, because if Arthur could have a friend, then, maybe, Merlin could have something more.

Merlin grit his teeth and relaxed his hold on his magic, letting it settle under his skin. He opened the rear passenger door and looked at Mordred.

"Are you coming?"

"What?" Mordred snorted. He gestured toward his face. "And mess up this moneymaker?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"He's waking up. Hurry, get him positioned."

A high-pitched shriek dragged across the concrete floor. Arthur's body jerked roughly, but he couldn't quite shake himself awake.

"Watch the markings, don't scratch them," someone said. The voice was muffled and cottony, difficult to make out clearly. Arthur recognized Aredian not by his accent or his tone of command, but by the absolute, imperious arrogance of his words.

His body jerked involuntarily before banging back against a hard surface. For a brief moment, he _floated_ , as disoriented as he would be if he were swimming underwater in the dark.

"Is this strictly necessary?"

Uther sounded… not worried, not exactly. Concerned? It was the same tone Arthur had long associated with the low-grade alarm that infected the boardroom members during a meeting at one of the Pendragon headquarters when they learned that the company stock had dropped a few points.

"When you came to me with your… request, I made it very clear that there would be no easy answers nor rapid results," Aredian said, his tone pinched. "My techniques have been perfected on a broad range of supernatural creatures and human sorcerers. I have had modest success with nephilim and lower-level demons, but absolutely none when it comes to handling material as rare as this."

"If you can't complete the task I hired you for, I'll --" Uther began.

"Yes?" Aredian asked, his voice sharp. "Yes, do go on, finish your sentence. You'll what? You'll find someone else? You strike me as the sort of man who engages in copious research before you act on a decision. How many people did you find with my skill set? With my reputation?"

The answering silence was filled with the creak of wood, the snap of rope pulled taut.

"No one, hm? I thought so," Aredian said, smug.

The thunder of departing footsteps was lost in a shuffling of noise and background chatter. Another wood-on-concrete scratch shuddered through Arthur with the grimace shriek of fingernails on chalkboard, and Arthur's body swung, a dull, hot pain shooting down his legs. Arthur forced himself to open his eyes, and he drowsily watched shapeless bodies drifting past, unable to focus on them through the thick, drugged haze.

"Mr Pendragon, surely you understand that what I am doing is absolutely necessary in order for me to know how to move forward. There is very little documentation detailing the physiology that your charge clearly possesses, and the majority of it comes from a very questionable source fraught with wild speculation," Aredian said, his tone softer, patronizing. "I am forced to examine what was done to the antichrist's closest historical counterpart and to go from there."

Arthur snorted softly, but no one seemed to hear him.

Thus far, all of Aredian's traditional methods, including physical punishment and judicious use of electrical power had been hampered by Uther's insistence that Arthur not be irreparably harmed. Threats of rape had only gone so far, because Arthur knew no one would get close enough to try. Psychological attempts to reprogram Arthur by hypnotic behaviour re-shaping, subliminal suggestions, and drugs were tabled for later, since those were long-term techniques that required more time than Uther had allotted for Arthur's "discipline".

That left the more creative approaches.

Aredian believed that God was merely a very powerful angel who had conceived a human child through unnatural means. The assumption was that any child conceived in a similar manner by Lucifer, who was also a powerful, Fallen angel, would also be susceptible to the same brutal treatment that the son of God had received a couple thousand years ago.

It was a fair assumption, though Arthur believed that his torture -- his _rehabilitation_ \-- was a fallacy of Aredian's fancy and nothing more. Holy water had been used to cleanse Jesus Christ, therefore it should burn Arthur. A priest would bless the son of God, but those prayers would exorcise the evil from Arthur's body. Candles dedicated to saints of any and every dominion would soothe Jesus' spirit and agitate Arthur.

And so on.

Arthur could have done without being waterboarded with so-called holy water that did little else but wash the dried blood from his skin and stained clothes. A near-immolation by a too-enthusiastic exorcist who was definitely not sanctioned by the Catholic Church had been averted only because of Uther's edict against lasting or publicly-visible damage. The attempt with the candles had released a noxious blend of hallucinogenic fumes into the air as they'd burned down, and Arthur had had himself a nice, mellow, and harmless high until they could clear out the room.

Arthur drifted. He was swinging. A long staff steadied him and pushed him against the hard surface. Thick cord was wrapped around his chest as he was tied fast.

"This is excessive," Uther said. He sounded ill. "It contravenes our agreement."

"It's merely the next stage," Aredian said flippantly. His tone took on a more serious note and he ordered, "Put the crown on."

"I said, no visible damage," Uther hissed.

"He'll heal," Aredian assured.

Something was twined around Arthur's head and twisted on tightly. Sharp pinpricks squeezed into Arthur's head. Arthur shook himself, trying to get it off, but it wouldn't budge. After a few minutes, the pain became a subtle annoyance, and he was getting dizzy from being upside down. His chest was heavy; it was difficult to breathe.

"The feet," Aredian ordered.

Arthur wanted to ask, _What about my feet?,_ but he was too out of it to properly form the words. He tried to lift his head to look down -- _up_ \-- but the ropes held him firmly.

"Oh, for the love of --" Aredian growled in annoyance. "Give me that ladder."

"Aredian!" Uther sounded scandalized. "I told you --"

There was a faint pause. The clatter of something being deposited nearby. Very sweetly, Aredian said, "You don't have to watch."

Arthur's vision was still hazy, but this close, it was easy to observe how Aredian had carefully deposited the ladder within the central circle, making certain not to break the lines in any way or form. The ladder was off to the side, not quite fully within Arthur's line of sight, but he could see Aredian's ascent, the careful movement of people passing him an object, and --

A clatter.

Arthur felt himself be moved. Something scraped along his bare left foot.

"Hold him," Aredian said. The ropes tightened around Arthur and his back was fixed against what felt to be a solid, scratchy pillar, square edges digging into the sides of his spine.

Metal struck metal in a resounding blow.

Arthur screamed.

Pain _bloomed_ bright with blinding _white_ , surging through his body. A hot stake burned through his foot. He jerked, fighting to get away, but the ropes held him taut. A second strike of the hammer drove the stake through Arthur's other foot, pinning them together. Arthur tried to curl in on himself, but the ropes held him down, and gravity had increased a hundredfold.

The pounding continued. Blunt blows hammered Arthur's toes, but he barely felt it through the cascade of pain and the flush of adrenaline. He panted for breath, for a _moment_ , and when it came, he could feel nothing but a throbbing heat dripping down his legs, soaking into the fabric of his dirty trousers.

"Will that hold his weight?" someone asked. Arthur was too disoriented to pinpoint the speaker.

Aredian made a detached, clinical sound. "No. I believe his weight will eventually tear the nail through his feet. We did promise his guardian to leave him mostly intact, so, perhaps we should prevent that."

Someone vomited.

Arthur hoped it was Uther.

"Pass me the strap," Aredian said. A shadow shifted. "Lift him up. A few inches, no more."

A solid band was wrapped around Arthur's waist, just beneath his thighs. Aredian made a sound of approval, and Arthur heard the sounds of hammering again. He tensed, but the blows vibrated through the pillar instead of through his body.

Satisfied, Aredian said, "Drop him down. Let's see if it holds."

Arthur braced himself, and though his feet continued to throb painfully, didn't fall. The leather band held his weight, but creaked threateningly.

"Good enough," Aredian said. "Spread his arms out. Position his hands."

Arthur's arms were pulled apart from where they dangled over his head and positioned against a crosspiece that ran the length behind his shoulders. Adrenaline and alarm offered Arthur a moment of clarity, and he suddenly recognized what Aredian was doing. He was nailing Arthur to a cross the same way that Jesus Christ had been, except he was upside down.

Arthur growled. It was a weak, ineffective growl, weakened by pain, softened by the press of his own weight on his chest, of lungs compressed uncomfortably in a narrowed ribcage. Aredian seemed untroubled, because he came down from the ladder, walked to Arthur's right arm, and pressed the sharp point of another stake into the soft of Arthur's palm.

His struggles were easily deflected. His arm didn't move.

"Any last words?" Aredian asked, unnaturally cheerful. "You do realize that only you can stop this? Not your guardian, who left you in my care. Not your friends, who abandoned you. I will continue until I have the result I require, regardless of how it's obtained. It's your choice, Arthur. Your honest and willing submission, or your complete deconstruction."

Arthur turned his head. He stared at the curls of what appeared to be a blue plastic apron covering Aredian's front, protecting a fine silk shirt and tailored trousers.

He had promised himself that no matter what Aredian did to him, he wouldn't beg. He wouldn't give in. Arthur knew well who and what he was, and he would never bow down to any mortal man.

Arthur forced himself to smile. To raise his head and look straight at the hazy blob that was -- hopefully -- Aredian's face. And in one, steady breath, he challenged, "Do your worst."

The snarl was Arthur's only warning. He clenched his teeth as the nail was driven through his hand.

A paralyzing blaze roared up his arm. He forced himself to breathe through it until it crested and ebbed. He welcomed the orgasmic spike and the residual blood-iron taste in his mouth. He accepted the hate _rage_ that rose from the pits of his dark heart to forcibly shrink and collapse a human weakness.

He inhaled the pain into his lungs. He used it to fuel his will.

Every day. Every night. Nine of them.

A cramped circle his only living space. A bucket to piss and to void his bowels into. One cold, overcooked bowl of gruel each day to quell a hunger that had gone silent long ago. All the holy water that he could inhale.

Billy clubs. Baseball bats. Brass knuckles.

Aredian's men. Aredian himself. None of them dared come close while Arthur was awake. They pumped the room with a gas to displace oxygen and to knock Arthur out through suffocation. Only then would they manhandle Arthur into position for whatever torture technique was next on Aredian's structured checklist.

Submission? Aredian pretended he understood submission. Deconstruction? Aredian considered himself a connoisseur, but he didn't know the first thing about the art of unmaking a man.

The hammer drove a third stake through his other hand. Arthur felt it punch through skin and muscle, cartilage and bone, but this time, there was no pain.

There was only anger. It burned deep and it burned bright, pulsing through him with a freedom that he had never allowed before.

Arthur heard Aredian's voice through a great, vast void. His voice was awkward and hollow, dripping with uncertainty beneath the bravado. "We'll give you some time to get comfortable. After a few hours, we'll have us another little chat."

Arthur turned to look at Aredian again. The drugged haze had burned away, and everything was in crisp focus. The wrinkles on his trousers. The curled tongue of the cheap bonded leather belt. The creases in the plastic apron. Blood splatter on Aredian's bare forearms, browning spots on the sleeve ruining the nice silk shirt.

"Damn it, Aredian," Uther whispered, and, to his credit, he sounded appalled. Arthur decided that he would allow his father a moment for one last prayer before he died.

Footsteps filed out. The cell door clanged shut. Everyone retreated, hushed whispers fading down the corridor.

Arthur exhaled. He took in a slow, struggling breath.

There was a time when crucifixion was the preferred punishment for any number of grievous crimes. The practice allowed for many different degrees of pain and could be constructed in such a way that it would correlate to the severity of the crime.  
Arthur could see the appeal.

He struggled to fill his lungs. He could barely hold his breath in long enough to make good use of it. With every inhalation, Arthur could feel the strain. It wasn't long before he felt something tear in his chest. A muscle along his rib. Slowly, bit by bit, his organs crushed. Blood settled in his upper body, raising his core temperature, his heart rate.

Shock. His body was in a state of shock.

His mind, however, remained clear.

Every ache. Every tear. Every drop of blood spilling to the floor. The pain was excruciating. The pain fuelled his rage.

His vision was a vibrant red around the edges. The red was chased after by a lusting black. Unconsciousness teased him with promises of relief, but Arthur made himself stay awake.

He counted the seconds.

The supporting sash around his waist tore from one of the nails. Arthur's weight sagged, pulling his feet from the nails. The movement broke through the crust of clotted blood and re-opened the wounds.

Arthur continued to breathe. He cultivated his hate. He focused on nothing else.

He wasn't sure how long it was before he heard arriving footsteps. Those footfalls were familiar now; he had heard them often enough. Aredian in the lead, trailed by a few lackeys. One of them was surely Uther.

Arthur watched them enter the room, fanning around the cell in a semicircle. Uther broke forward only to be pulled back by the collar like a recalcitrant child. Several henchmen exchanged uncertain glances. Aredian managed to maintain an impassive expression, but Arthur could smell the fear blooming on his skin.

"Let him down," Uther ordered.

Conflict weighed Aredian's gaze. Behind the judgemental assessment, Arthur could see the questions Aredian was asking himself. Was Arthur weak enough to dare approach? Or should they gas the room again and run the risk that Arthur would suffocate past the point of recovery? Should he determine how long Arthur could hang there, bleeding and slowly dying, to satisfy his own curiosity?

A distant clang prevented Arthur from divining Aredian's decision. Everyone in the room turned toward the far door. Two over-large henchmen with tiny heads and straining shirts ran toward the sound, guns drawn.

A grunt. A scuffle. A shout.

A shadow shifted. Darkness filled the doorway, and darkness walked through.

Aredian raised a gun. Uther stumbled against the far wall, away from the newcomer and the line of fire. The remaining men in the room congregated, blocking Arthur's view, but not before he saw the horror in Merlin's eyes grow cold as ice.

The chill that flooded the room felt lovely against the burning rage under his skin.

Arthur smiled.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The scene that waited for him when he walked through the door punched Merlin in the gut.

The cross was an inverted Tau, suspended at the top of the cell and locked in place by rebar. The wood was cobbled together from repurposed railroad ties, the surface blackened and coarse, covered with grease and tar. The stipes was little more than a solid piece of newer wood, and the crossbar was a double-thickness of store-brought two by fours.

Creativity, ingenuity, and innovation was clearly the stock and trade of sadists and psychopaths, putting together something that was at once aesthetically pleasing and emotionally jarring out of everyday rubbish. Merlin had taken care of a number of monsters in a wide range of sizes and shapes before, but this scene was a step above and beyond the greatest horror he had ever known.

And yet, there was something inherently wrong with the picture. It wasn't that Arthur was suspended upside down, bloody and battered. It was --

It was that this diorama wasn't _worthy_ of him.

An artisan should have built the cross in the sacred ways of old, carving two pieces of hand-cut wood from the same ebony tree with such precision that the seams weren’t be visible to the naked eye. The footrest needed to be a stubbed stipes polished to a gleaming surface, much like the stool before a kingly throne, and the nails forged out of steel folded with a damask core instead of the crude carbon cut of railroad spikes.

Merlin swallowed.

Carefully cultivated detachment wavered under the simmer of low-grade arousal.

Bare feet. Soiled clothes. Torn fabric. Bruises and cuts. Welts and burns. Sweat and filth and blood.

A wash of _want_ cowered under the frigid mantle of rage and possession.

Merlin started forward when he realized Arthur was looking at him, his expression strained, his body trembling faintly, his eyes blank of any emotion that wasn't concentration -- only to stop when the circle of Aredian's men closed around him. Safeties clicked off. One man pumped a shotgun.

"Get out of my way."

"Or?" a short, stout man challenged.

Merlin scanned the group. Eleven men, all of varying sizes and shapes, not a single one of them soft. They were made of flint-edges and fearless experience, possessing any variety of skill that would make them useful to someone like Aredian Marais. The Witchfinder rarely worked alone, but he also rarely worked with the same group of people twice, and these men -- these mercenaries -- stood just enough apart to hint that they'd never worked together before.

Merlin wasn't army trained. Gwaine had offered him a gun, but he'd refused. The only thing he had in his favour was his magic, and Aredian had locked the warehouse down tightly, warding it against the ethereal essence of angels and demons and the comparatively crude weave of witchwork.

These men, even Aredian himself, looked at Merlin as if they expected him to be easy. A harmless human thrall to a monstrous creature deserving to be put down. Magic bristled under Merlin's skin, grievously offended by the insult.

"Or you'll wish I'd let the nephilim come through first," Merlin said.

He'd made short work of the wards to the warehouse, leaving Aredian's men to bloodthirsty nephilim who preferred killing with their bare hands. Those who weren't occupied with thugs followed Merlin through, but the passageway leading down to this enclosed and barricaded area had been graffittied by an intricate web of protection against Celestials that would have taken too long to undo. Merlin had caught a glimpse of Leon's furious expression when he'd left the rest of them behind to deal with Aredian's men, but he'd felt he couldn't wait.

That this was something he needed to do himself.

Someone snorted. A few mercenaries exchanged glances.

"Have you some kind of mental affliction?"

A tall man in a dark suit moved into Merlin's line of sight. His brown hair was bookended with gunmetal grey stripes at the temples, his tie was askew, and his colour was pale and tinged green. Uther Pendragon stood out against the cast of players upon the stage, a frayed director whose play had gotten away from him. He was out of his depth and refused to admit it. Merlin had no sympathy for him.

"Probably," Merlin said.

He moved forward, eyes fixed on the slump of Arthur's legs. Aredian intercepted him, pressing a gun muzzle to Merlin's chest. "Who are you?"

It took a moment for Merlin to focus on Aredian's watery gaze, to register the question. "Emrys."

Aredian's head tilted, and his eyes gleamed with slow recognition. "Oh. _Oh!_ The _Executioner_." His voice was a breathy laugh of barely-suppressed amusement. He glanced down Merlin's body and back up again. "The stories describe you as… more."

If Aredian's men recognized the name, it was only in passing, couched in appreciating smirks for the mockery. Merlin half-sighed, staring past Aredian at the top of the cell, itching to get to Arthur. "I get that a lot."

"A pity you burned yourself out. You could have been worthy of my attention. And now? You're barely a footnote in history. To go from being a name that struck terror in the hearts of monsters to a life lesson for young sorcerers who dabble in arts beyond their ken. I admired you, once. I'd planned your capture, of course --"

The hasty, cheap construction betrayed itself and the stipe worked its way loose from the railroad tie. Arthur's legs drooped, the leather belt holding him steady against the wood creaked and tore, and --

Arthur didn't cry out, but the sharp exhalation might as well have been a shout. The noise was enough to silence the room, and Merlin's magic spiked, responding to his anxiety. He had to get to Arthur.

Aredian shifted, but he stopped himself from turning around. Merlin gave him a meaningful look and made a sweeping motion with his hand. "Can you…? I don't know. Get the fuck out of my way?"

"So pathetic! You're pitiful," Aredian sneered. He shook his head. "Of all the people that young Mr Pendragon could have recruited to his cause, he settled on _you_?"

"Scraping the bottom of the barrel, innit? Slime and shite," someone said with a laugh.

Arthur growled. The sound was low, guttural, menacing, and shouldn't sound as dangerous as it did considering his situation. The wood creaked, as if under great strain, and Merlin could see the top of the cell rattling as the cross shifted under Arthur's struggles.

The leather tore, slipping, slapping the ground. The crowd surrounding Merlin parted, and he could see that Arthur was simultaneously straining to keep himself from suffocating and preparing to tear himself off the cross.

Merlin couldn't tell if Arthur was merely done with the situation and the torture, or if he was reacting this way because Merlin had been insulted. Either way, a warm sensation wound its way through him, thawing the ice in his blood.

Uther shrank back. Concern flit in Aredian's expression, but still, he didn't turn around, proving he was more balls than brain.

"You made him mad," Merlin said softly. He didn't try to fight the smile spreading across his face. He could only imagine how twisted the smile made him appear when Aredian flinched and jerked away from him. Cool metal slipped away from Merlin's brow, but Aredian kept the gun raised.

It trembled.

"I know what you're thinking," Merlin said. "You're wondering who you should be afraid of. In this scenario, I promise you… There's no wrong answer."

This time, when he swept his hand in the air, magic fuelled the motion with the power of a land-scouring tidal wave and washed the mercenaries out of his way. He grabbed the barrel of the gun, his magic accelerating time. The metal aged and rusted, crumbling to dust.

A mercenary fired at him. The bullet tore through the fabric of Merlin's trench coat, flying through-and-through and leaving a flesh wound behind. Merlin's magic was driven by pain _rage_ and accepted the blood offering trickling down his cut shoulder and --

Merlin _felt_ his magic pull back behind the taut coil of a bow, to disassemble itself from a single strike. He could feel what it was doing. He knew what was about to happen.

And he let it.

Like an archer releasing, his magic shot forward at velocity, forming thousands of long, thin needles thatdispersed like scattershot and struck the mercenaries in range. The needles threaded through them like hot steel through butter, and --

Merlin redirected the needles the _other_ way, catching the fleeing mercenaries, and watched them drop one by one by one.

He felt nothing. Not a drop of guilt. Not a moment of regret. He would have, once, but now, he didn't care.

Merlin met Aredian's trembling gaze and pushed him aside.

He reached out with both hands, pressing his palms together. He jerked them open, and the cell walls of Arthur's cage exploded outward.

And yet -- magic kept the ceiling aloft, the cross suspended. Merlin focused, guiding the wide grate down with a smooth gesture, easing the cross to the ground, only to have it stop, hanging in mid-air.

That was when he noticed the markings on the cement floor. The thick inner circle that prevented the cross -- that prevented _Arthur_ \-- from leaving a space no wider than two metres wide.

Metatron's Cube.

The Cube was an artifice of perfect geometry. A devil's number of thirteen circles, lines interconnecting them in squares, rectangles, triangles, pentagrams, hexagrams, octagons and more, the Cube had been subsumed in ancient times by practitioners of divine arts as a measure of protection against evil and the containment of satanic powers.

It was used to ward against or imprison anything originating from the divine, their nature and powers rendered weak and useless by the tangle of mathematical synchronicity. The Cube could be drawn as large or as small as necessary, but only a practiced hand could ensure its effectiveness. The slightest slip of a ruler, an angle one degree off-centre, a wobbly circle -- all of these things could affect the power of the Cube.

For most sorcerers, the Cube was too much work with little payoff. Even demonologists, whose powers often relied on the overuse of symbols for summoning spells, barely knew how to draw one, and most would be hard pressed to identify the symbol in a line-up. Angelic beings, whether they were Fallen or slumming on Earth from their Heavenly perches, had no doubt breathed a collective sigh of relief to arrive in modern times, when rare was the person who had the precise dedication to their art and the artistic skill to complete the most dangerous ward against their kind.

Merlin was among those few. And what he could build, he could also destroy.

This Cube was painted on the floor. Aredian's men wouldn't have been able to place Arthur in the chair if the Cube had already been painted, and that meant it had been completed after he had been placed in position. Merlin knew Aredian would never have a magic user in his employ to build the Cube, so that meant that the design had either been drawn by a talented artist, or by someone who had used laser-cut stencils to paint the pattern on the ground.

Merlin continued to hold the cross, reaching out to caress Arthur with his magic, easing the strain on his wounds. Arthur's breathing became easier, quick at first, then slower and deeper, his body relaxing despite the nails through his hands and feet. As soon as he was satisfied that Arthur was stable and safe for the moment, Merlin closed his eyes.

His magic dropped to the floor. It skittered along the lines of Metatron's Cube, tracing it over and over, seeking the slightest imperfection.

There weren't any.

It didn't matter.

There were other imperfections. In the grain of the cement beneath the paint. In the dust and dirt that hadn't been swept from the floor beforehand. In the paint itself.

Merlin let his magic _burn_.

The lines caught fire as if ignited, bright and white like magnesium, scorching the Cube, circles and lines, squares and rectangles, triangles and diamonds, pentagrams and hexagons and octagons and all. The Cube was disassembled in a matter of seconds, a hot haze drifting in the enclosed space. The invisible resistance holding the cross up disappeared, and Merlin guided it gently to the ground.

A sharp, jarring pain scraped at Merlin's temple. He opened his eyes to an Aredian who was barely holding himself together, visibly discomfited by Merlin's display of power. He'd found another gun.

"Stop what you're doing," Aredian said. To his credit, his voice didn't waver.

Merlin's magic found the nails holding Arthur to the cross. He pulled them out quickly, all at once, and Arthur -- _his_ Arthur -- exhaled harshly, as if biting back a groan, but otherwise didn't make a sound.

"The spells around the building to hide Arthur from me. The wards around the building. _In_ the building. The meteoritic steel, the bars of the cell. Metatron's Cube. You prepared for everything, but all you've got for me is… a gun?"

Merlin scoffed. He stepped around Aredian.

"That's really fucking weak," he said. He walked over to where Arthur lay prone, unmoving, his chest rising and falling.

"Don't you walk away from --"

Aredian's snarl died on his lips when he registered the nails floating in the air. Merlin gestured sharply. The nails stabbed through Aredian's hands and feet with near-simultaneous _thunk_ s that were drowned out by Aredian's screams. Merlin barely gave him a glance as magic spread Aredian's arms wide, pinning him on the concrete of the far wall as if he were an insect to be studied.

Merlin crouched down next to Arthur. He hesitated, not quite sure what to do. Arthur's clothes were torn and filthy, barely covering some of his injuries. His hands and feet continued to bleed, though sluggishly, now, as if some force beyond Merlin's magic was healing him.

"Arthur?"

Merlin carefully pulled the barbed wire mockery that was the crown of thorns, untangling it from Arthur's hair. He brushed the streaks of blood and the sweat-slick hair from Arthur's forehead, trying to ease the pain. The faint scowl of concentration eased from Arthur's brow, and Merlin placed his hand against Arthur's cheek, marvelling at the warmth. Arthur should be cold, his skin clammy, his pallor drawn. Merlin moved a hand to Arthur's chest and felt his heartbeat, solid, steady and strong, his breathing slow and even, as if resting.

Arthur's eyes slivered open. He turned his head toward Merlin. His lips parted as if he were about to speak, but he only breathed a soft sigh. Merlin pulled him from the cross as gently as he could, watching Arthur's expression for the slightest sign of discomfort. He settled Arthur in his lap and held him, ignoring the heavy weight of magical exhaustion settle in his limbs.

 

 

 

 

He hadn't used this much power in years. It was like riding a bike. And now every muscle screamed at him, protesting the unexpected workout. He wanted to rest, but he also needed to make certain that Arthur would be all right. He should go and see how the others were doing. He should break the wards so that they could come and get Arthur to safety and obtain medical help for him.

In a minute. Maybe two. No one needed to know he was weak with the staggering relief that Arthur was alive.

"Merlin."

"Yeah," Merlin whispered. He traced his fingertips over Arthur's body, unable to help himself.

"You're late."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Arthur flexed his hand.

Rapidly-thinning scar tissue covered what had been a gaping crucifixion wound in the middle of his palm. The stretch of skin as he uncurled numb and tingling fingers was an uncomfortable reminder of the sharp pain that had come with the first strike on the nail's head.

He could hear it in his mind. The sound haunted his sleep. His dream-self crawled across the cleansing fires of Merlin's magic, unharmed by their comforting touch. When he emerged from the field of flames, the room was empty, and he was not victorious, but damned to look upon himself imprisoned within a cell, inside the artifice of Metatron's Cube, hanging upside down from that fucking cross.

Arthur dropped his hand and rubbed his face. The scratches where the barbed-wire crown had dug into his skull were healed, but the phantom pain remained.

It had only been a few days since his rescue, and though his recovery was slower than normal, he was nearly whole. The scars would fade, his strength would return, and he would soon ensure that Uther was punished for his transgression with a life of absolute servitude until he outlived his usefulness, at which point he would meet an abrupt, dismissive end.

For now, Uther resumed his position at the head of the Pendragon fortune, obediently turning over everything to Arthur as Vivian supervised. Leon was quietly disassembling Uther's congregation while screening those who wanted to move into Arthur's service. The others were dispersed throughout London, hunting down the rest of Aredian's people.

Arthur's only regret was that he hadn't stayed to watch Aredian suffocate to death where Merlin had nailed him to the wall. Aredian hadn't lasted very long despite the traditional crucifixion pose -- barely two days before his body gave out entirely.

Arthur had been disappointed at the news. A part of him had wanted to be there the moment Aredian took his last, laboured breath, but Arthur was gratified by the knowledge that Aredian's death had been at Merlin's hands. Merlin had come for Arthur, had taken up the mantle of Executioner once again, and had doled out a metered justice.

All for Arthur.

It was heady to know that despite his failed pursuit, Arthur had somehow earned Merlin's protection. He wasn't too proud to accept it.

With a grunt, Arthur rolled out of bed. He tested his feet gingerly before standing up. The bones had healed, the torn muscle had knit together, but ligaments and cartilage weren't as organic, requiring complete dissolution and reconstruction. It had been fascinating to watch.

He stripped his pajama bottoms and went into the attached bathroom, not even waiting for the shower water to heat up before stepping inside. The water sluiced over his head and down his body, and while the water was still cold, Arthur imagined that it was Merlin's magic caressing him, cooling his temper and grounding him. The water heated up too quickly, erasing the sensation and the memory, and he stood, his eyes closed, under the steaming heat to savour a different memory altogether.

The morning after his rescue, Arthur had found Merlin sprawled across the plush sofa in the sitting room, one leg stretched across the length, the other on the floor, one arm across his chest and the other over his head, covering his eyes. Instinct had driven Arthur to make a space for himself between those open legs even as Leon discreetly left the room, and Arthur had lain down on top of Merlin, expecting nothing.

He'd found much, much more than that. A sense of safety, the warmth of comfort, the gentlest of touches at his cheek.

Merlin had snuffled in his sleep and dropped his arm down to brush across Arthur's shoulders, settling in the middle of his back. Arthur had found himself listening to Merlin's heartbeat until it lulled him to sleep.

Merlin had felt solid beneath Arthur, enclosing but not restraining, protective without being overwhelming. That close to him, Arthur had inhaled Merlin's natural scent, sweat mixed with the faint remnants of aftershave, jasmine soap entwined with the burning crackle of magic, the metallic tinge of Arthur's blood in the creases of his skin.

It was enough to get Arthur hard. He stroked himself a few times to take the edge off, but found no pleasure in it. Tossing one off wasn't enough. He wanted to fuck. He wanted to _claim_. He wanted Merlin under him in absolute submission, willingly giving what Arthur wanted to take and never return.

 

 

 

 

The cold wash of how he'd woken up to find Merlin gone without so much as a good-bye, of how many phone calls went unanswered and visits to his flat were met with an apologetic and embarrassed George -- the painful sensation of complete abandonment was persistent enough to ease the dull ache of _yearning_.

Arthur finished washing up mechanically, brushing his teeth and dressing for the day. He had school, a board meeting, an interview. He couldn't be pining after someone who kept running away.

He glanced at himself in the mirror before leaving the bedroom, and pointedly ignored the dark circles under his eyes that reminded him of how poorly he'd slept since Merlin had left him.

Leon was in the main room, a laptop abandoned on the coffee table, a notebook in his hand. His attention was split evenly between the mobile against his ear and the newscast on the telly.

" _… and the market was shocked today at the unexpected announcement that Uther Pendragon, the owner and CEO of the very successful Pendragon conglomeration, retired from his position effective immediately. No replacement has been named but there is every indication that controllership will pass to his son, Arthur Pendragon --_ "

That was apparently what Leon had been waiting for, because he said, "Thank you," into his mobile and hung up. He glanced at Arthur, who nodded wordlessly, and shut off the telly, leaving the remote perched on the arm of the chair.

"You'll have to make a statement, soon, before the stock drops too much," Leon said unnecessarily. "Vivian will field phone calls in the meantime. You have a few days, at the very least. Isolde is ready to act. She'll call when she feels that it's time to buy."

The plan was for Arthur to recoup shares divided among the board members and Arthur's congregation at the lowest prices possible before manoeuvring the company into position. It would take time before the stocks recovered, but Arthur was confident that they would exceed their former rating on the market.

"Good," Arthur said. He considered making a cup of tea, but his hands weren't strong enough yet, and he wasn't keen on dropping a kettle full of boiling water. "Aredian?"

"Disposed of. Percival got the last straggler this morning." Leon thumbed through the messages on his phone, skimming information he probably already had memorized. "No word on Morgana. I have a feeling she's going to act soon."

"She will," Arthur said. He was surprised that she hadn't moved against him already. While Gwaine had ensured that word hadn't gotten out about Arthur's capture by the Witchfinder, it was difficult to squash all the rumours. More people had noticed that Merlin had associated himself, however tenuously, with Arthur, and no one could have missed Merlin's subsequent hunt for anything related to Aredian. Someone, somewhere, would make the connection soon, and Arthur wanted to be prepared.

Arthur helped himself to the lukewarm coffee in the pot, having no stomach for more. He added sugar until it was palatable, allowing himself a wistful moment to regret sending George to watch over Merlin until he remembered how much George annoyed him.

"Ready to go?" Leon asked, collecting his papers and equipment.

"Just about," Arthur said, closing his eyes as he quaffed the coffee in as few gulps as possible. He put the mug in the sink, glanced around for his schoolbag, and asked the question he'd promised he wouldn't ask. "Has there been any word from Merlin?"

Leon froze in the act of checking his gun cartridge. He winced, glancing away as he replaced the cartridge and holstered his gun. "Um."

Arthur exhaled heavily and touched his eyebrow. He nodded glumly and waved his hand in the air in dismissal. He didn't care, he told himself. Clearly, Merlin had helped Arthur's men save him out of the sheer goodness of his heart and had had no ulterior motive, not even a tiny smidge of affection for Arthur. He shouldered his schoolbag and met Leon's concerned gaze with a flat, detached look of his own.

"Shall we?" he asked, heading for the door.

"Arthur --"

"He's made his choice," Arthur said, his voice hollow. "It seems we may be able to call upon him for assistance, though we may have to be judicious --"

" _Arthur_!" Leon's shout was accompanied by a pained sigh. Arthur stopped in his tracks and turned around slowly, feeling a murderous rise crawl up his gullet at being spoken to in that tone. Leon raised a hand in the air and sternly said, "I love you dearly, and if you consider me your friend _at all_ , you'll let me talk."

Arthur took in Leon's pleading stance and the care in his tone. It was rare for Leon to ask anything of Arthur, and he wasn't asking for much.

"This once," Arthur said grudgingly.

"Thank you." Leon's shoulders dropped in what might be relief, but there was no missing the way he took a short, sharp breath to steel himself. "You need to get your head out of your arse where Merlin is concerned."

Arthur raised a brow. His voice dropped an octave. "Merlin is nothing to me."

"Just --" Leon stopped himself. He glanced away. When he turned to Arthur again, it was with renewed determination. "In everything you've ever done, you've always been _right_. I've never doubted you until this moment."

Arthur bristled, but Leon gave him a hard look and continued.

"Don't push Merlin aside."

Arthur barked a sharp laugh. "Me? He's the one who --"

"You don't know what he was like," Leon said quickly. Arthur's mouth snapped shut. "When he was looking for you, I mean. It reminded me of all the stories I'd heard about him from… from before. When he'd cut through whatever stood in his way. And then --"

Leon stopped. He shook his head, incredulity seeping into his features.

"I sat in a car with the boogeyman of my childhood," Leon said. "I've never been that close to my greatest fear before. I didn't see it until it was almost too late, but the whole time he was with us and we were trying to find you, _he was dying_."

Something stopped in Arthur's chest.

Leon scratched his jaw. He sighed softly. "We got you out of there, and it seemed Merlin was all right for a while. I don't know. But it turned sour when he woke up, and when he left --"

Arthur scowled. Leon trailed off and didn't look like he was going to continue. Arthur needed to know, and his voice was nearly a growl when he asked, "When he left? What?"

Leon didn't have to say it. Arthur could hear it. It was something that he had never wanted to acknowledge. That Merlin was broken. If he could be fixed, it would only be because he wanted to be fixed.

Someone who carried as much guilt as Merlin would never let himself heal.

"He is… devoted to you," Leon said quietly.

Arthur clenched his jaw. He didn't want the blind adoration that came from the unwashed masses. He wanted _Merlin_ , body and soul. Stiffly, he said, "Of course he is."

"You're an idiot." Leon made a frustrated sound.

Arthur raised a brow.

"He _sacrificed_ ," Leon said quickly. The choice of words startled Arthur out of contemplating Leon's punishment for his insult. "He sacrificed, and he didn't ask for anything in return. He doesn't want anything in return. He's devoted to _you_ , and not like those people who worship what you are."

Arthur stared, at a loss for words. Leon stood up straighter, a determined glint in his eyes.

"He sees _you_. And I think… I think he can love you the way no one else ever could. The way you deserve. He could love you for _you_."

"Leon --"

"I don't know why he left, but… Don't give up on him, Arthur. You need him. He's good for you. That's all I have to say." Leon nodded and bowed his head, an apology and gratefulness in the same gesture. He turned away and pulled on his jacket, the motion signaling the end of the conversation. "Gwaine's downstairs. Shall we --?"

"Yes," Arthur snapped, and followed Leon as he went to clear the way.

Neither of them spoke during the ride down to the parking garage. Arthur wasn't even sure he knew what to say. He was mulling over Leon's words when he slid in the back seat of the sedan, Gwaine glancing over his shoulder for a cheeky good-morning.

"To school, then?"

"Yeah," Leon said, slipping into the front passenger seat. His mobile rang and he fished it out of his pocket. "Try to keep it under the speed limit this time."

"Spoil my fun, won't you?" Gwaine muttered, crawling through the maze of parked cars to get to the exit.

"It's Mordred," Leon said, glancing over his shoulder at Arthur. "He says he's found Merlin."

"Oh, thank God," Arthur said, sinking back in his seat. When he realized why Leon was giving him a strange look and Gwaine stopped the car to look over his shoulder, Arthur scowled and said, "It's an expression, you bloody twats. How is Merlin?"

"Huh," Gwaine said, continuing to drive.

Leon listened to his mobile before glancing over his shoulder. "He's completely rat arsed, Mordred says. He's taking Merlin to his flat to get him cleaned up."

Arthur nodded stiffly. "Good."

Gwaine drove up the rise to exit the underground parking. The gate rose and Gwaine inched forward, only to slam on the brakes. A hooded figure wearing a woollen overcoat over a dirty jumper crashed against the side, nearly throwing himself onto the hood of the car, grabbing hold of the windshield wipers.

Arthur startled. Leon drew his gun. Gwaine followed escape protocol and gunned the engine to get away, and as the person slid off and bounced off the side of the car, Arthur shouted, "Stop!"

Gwaine slammed on the brakes. Leon was out of the car in an instant, his gun ready. Arthur climbed out, catching the man just as he fell to the ground.

"Stay in the car!" Leon shouted.

"It's _Lancelot_ ," Arthur snarled. He eased the nephilim to the ground.

"Lancelot? _Lance!_ " Leon was around the car in an instant. He started to drop to his knees, only to jump up again a moment later to take a long look around, wary and protective.

"Shite!" Gwaine said, coming to his knees on Lancelot's other side. He looked up at Arthur. "I thought you said he was dead!"

"No," Arthur said, shaking his head. He remembered his exact words. He'd said that Lancelot had been lost to them. Lancelot had been compromised, and there was no knowing what Morgana would do to a spy in her midst. Arthur suspected that she would break Lancelot, even turn him to her side.

It's what he would do.

Lancelot had known that this would be a possibility if he was caught. That there would be no rescue for him. Should Morgana have uncovered Lancelot's personal agenda for having volunteered, Arthur knew that Lancelot would have been lost in more ways than one.

 _"I'm ashamed," Lancelot admitted, kneeling at Arthur's feet. He covered his face in his hands before looking up at Arthur in supplication. "I hope you know I would do anything for you. That I am doing this to keep you safe. But Morgana… Morgana has Gwen. I… I love her."_  
__  
_"I understand," Arthur said, even though he didn't. But if there was one thing he knew, it was what to say to reassure Lancelot, even if it wasn't true. "I trust you."_  
  
Arthur's thoughts went to Merlin. His heart stuttered, aching, incomplete. Arthur thought that he understood, now.

Lancelot was filthy, but he looked to be healthy and whole. He was thinner than Arthur remembered, his cheek in sore need of a shave, his hair long and greasy, knotted and matted in places. But there was something wrong. There was something missing.

"Arthur," Lancelot whispered. He flailed and caught Arthur's wrist. He blinked several times, helpless, lost. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I failed you --"

"No," Arthur shushed. He cradled Lancelot's face gently. "No. You served me so well. You did your best."

Lancelot shook his head. "No. No. I failed. She found me out. She used Gwen. Gwen was hers all along. I was a fool."

"How did you escape?" Gwaine asked.

Lancelot closed his eyes. Pain filled his expression. When he looked at Arthur again, Arthur saw it. What was missing. He knew what Morgana had done.

It wasn't a burning rage that filled him, not this time. Only the cold wash of sorrow and grief.

"He didn't," Arthur said. He brushed Lancelot's hair from his forehead, trying to comfort him. "He gave her what she craves."

"Oh, no," Leon said, his tone heartbroken with realization.

"She took his soul," Arthur said. His anger burned to know the cost that Lancelot had willingly paid for his freedom. "But why? That's too much. Even for me. I'm not worth --"

"You are. You _are_ ," Lancelot insisted. "For what you'll do. For what you'll build. I needed to do it. I needed to warn you. Morgana -- Morgana is coming after you."

"We know," Leon murmured, even though they really didn't. He crouched down next to Lancelot and took his hand, twining their fingers together in the same way Arthur wanted to do with Merlin. He stared at their clenched hands, wondering if Lancelot would see, now, how much Leon loved him.

Lancelot shook his head. "No. She's coming to _break_ you, Arthur."

Arthur felt himself go very, very still.

"She knows about Merlin."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alcohol lowered inhibitions. It offered the desperate a refuge from reality. The power to sentence bad memories to a lifetime in the pit of oblivion was a temptation few could resist.

Merlin had been on the cusp of drinking himself stupid when Mordred dragged him away from the pub.

For all the benefits that alcohol offered to the tortured and miserable, there was one downside.

Clarity.

Crystal-clear clarity.

There was no lying to himself. No hiding behind self-styled ignorance. No denials.

Merlin pulled away from Mordred. Mordred, who was irritatingly sober and an incubus stronger than a mortal man, guided Merlin from the kerb and onto the weather-sheltered steps of the nearest building.

"I hate you," Merlin slurred. He held his spinning head in his hands.

"So you've said."

"I want to die," Merlin said. He curled onto his side, pulling his knees in.

"That's the drink talking, mate," Mordred said.

Merlin scratched behind his ears. He ran his hand behind his head. He noticed that Mordred was barefoot. "Where are your shoes?"

"You vomited on them after I called Leon," Mordred said with a sigh. "Completely ruined. They were nice shoes."

"Oh," Merlin said, remembering. His mind was a jumble of distorted images, but there was no forgetting how he'd felt queasy with the realization that Arthur would find out what a fuck-up he was. His revenge on Mordred had been to drop to his knees and empty his stomach of the rotgut whiskey that hadn't yet been absorbed into his blood. "You deserved that."

Mordred knelt beside Merlin and roughly manhandled him into a sitting position. Merlin fought him on every adjusted millimetre, kicking and lashing out feebly. He caught Mordred on the jaw and half-expected Mordred to suck what was left of Merlin's life out of his body in retaliation. Instead, he was very firmly restrained and given a rough shake.

"You're a fucking idiot," Mordred muttered. He rubbed his hand over his face, and the disappointment in his eyes was so heavy that Merlin couldn't stand it. He looked away.

After making sure that Merlin wouldn't slide off the low step, Mordred sat down next to him. He didn't say anything for the longest time. Three lorries rumbled past, a handful of cars with early-shift workers flashed their headlights at them, but it wasn't much longer before the traffic picked up and the sun rose higher in the sky.

The sky stayed a bleary, solid grey throughout. Streetlights blinked off one by one down the street. Neon shop-signs flickered to life. Someone offered Mordred a couple of crumpled quid and a motherly smile. "I hope things get better for you two boys."

"We're not -- we don't need…" Mordred sighed. He looked down at his bare feet, nodded resignedly, and said. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

Merlin held in his laughter as long as he could but it broke out of him in harsh, broken gasps, becoming an awful sob. He leaned forward, head between his knees, hands protecting his head, doing everything he could to hold back his tears.

Fuck, but he felt alone. He was lonely. He'd broken his promises. He'd become a monster again. All these years of repentance for Will's death washed away, and --

For what?

His survival against demons raised in a park by a witch-initiate.

He could have walked away from the encounter without relying on his magic. He could have saved the world. It had been fucking selfish, and using his magic had left him feeling dirty and wrong.

But Arthur.

 _Arthur_.

Merlin hadn't had any qualms in tearing those mercenaries apart. In punishing Aredian for daring hurt a boy who had already suffered enough in his life. He'd just wanted to protect him. To save him. To take care of him.

Merlin had wanted to stay that morning when he'd woken up to find Arthur pressed up against him on the couch. He'd kept himself as immobile as possible, stealing as much as he could of that moment for himself. The solidity of Arthur's frame against his. The weight of his body making Merlin feel grounded. The warmth of Arthur's breath against the side of his throat.

How soft and beautiful Arthur was when he slept.

Merlin could have stayed. He should have stayed. But it struck him in that moment how _perfect_ it felt to be where he was. How he didn't feel the least bit of remorse for using magic to save Arthur.

And… he just couldn't. He'd slipped out from under Arthur, regretting every step that took him further and further away, too overwhelmed by the sudden lack of shame and guilt to do anything but leave. Every day had been a torture he felt he deserved, separated by his own will from what made him feel whole.

He wiped his face with the back of a rough sleeve. The words were out of his mouth before he realized the admission. "I shouldn't have left."

"No, you really fucking shouldn't have," Mordred said. Then, he had to go and be a decent bloke, placing a comforting hand on Merlin's back.

Merlin closed his eyes. He sniffled. His head hurt, but the ache in his heart hurt more. "My mouth tastes like arse."

"Good." Mordred stood up, offering his hand. "Come on. We're a street over from yours. We'll get you sorted out, and then…"

A constipated look crossed his expression.

Merlin snorted. "You're really bad at this."

Mordred shrugged. "I fuck them and I leave them, you bladdered monkey. That's what I do. I don't go about rescuing the emotionally-stunted from themselves and I definitely don't tuck them in bed and promise that everything's going to be all right."

Merlin fluttered his eyelashes. "Is everything going to be all right?"

Mordred hesitated. "That's between you and Arthur. Also, fuck you."

Merlin managed a small laugh. He took the offered hand and let Mordred pull him to his feet.

"Friendships without benefit are bollocks. Complete waste of my time. This low-grade buzz I'm getting? Completely fucking unsatisfying," Mordred groused, adjusting his grasp on Merlin.

Merlin threw his arm across Mordred's shoulders and started in one direction, only for Mordred to cluck at him and direct him in another. Merlin was so turned around, trembling with light-headedness and throbbing from alcohol withdrawal, that it took him a minute to recognize his surroundings and orient himself properly.

When Mordred had him pointed in the right direction, tut-tutting about not stepping on his foot, Merlin recognized the bakery down the street, the consignment shop where he'd found a replacement trench coat for the one that had gotten too blood-stained for saving, the office of the accountant who despaired of handling Merlin's bills but somehow managing to keep him from bankruptcy.

Nameless, but familiar faces walked past, minding their own business. The woman who always wore her hair in a messy bun and wore stiletto heels that could easily kill a man. The grizzled veteran with the ivory cane who could probably afford to live in a better part of London but who resolutely stayed because this was where he'd spent a lifetime with his wife. The father herding his stubborn twin daughters toward their bus stop, even though they were late, as usual.

Merlin's gaze flit across different faces, past the sea of movement and the overlapping, always contrasting auras that clung to them. He stared straight ahead, the tall building that shadowed his flat maybe another three hundred, five-hundred metres away, and --

A _bright_ dark aura flashed in the corner of his eye.

Lush and deep, as vibrant as a jungle teeming with life, the aura was heavily tainted, shadowed by pitfalls. As the crowd walked past, their emotions trailing behind them and fading slowly, this aura was immobile, broad and overwhelming, licking the air like the tall flames of a raging bonfire, orange and green and black.

He didn't need to see the person attached to that aura to know who it was. He dropped his arm from Mordred's shoulders even as the crowds parted just enough to catch a glimpse of Morgause.

"Mordred," Merlin said, brushing aside the incubus' attempt to grab him. "Run."

"Merlin, we're almost there. What are you --"

There was a loud crash on the street. A fender-bender, nothing more, but enough to stop traffic. The cause was coming toward them.

Three -- no. Four. Four nephilim jaywalked through traffic to a herald of warning beeps and shrieking klaxons. They staggered positions, blocking the cars from passing, and… There were more nephilim on the other side of the street, doing the same, and soon, the road was clear.

Angry commuters rolled down their windows and shouted expletives. A man got out of the driver's side and advanced on one of the nephilim. Someone decided a bit of maiming was worth being late, and lifted his foot from the brake, gunning at the nephilim.

The nephilim held up a hand to use angelic power to stop the screeching car in its tracks, and with the other, fired his gun at the driver.

The crowd broke.

People screamed. Panicked. Skittered and fled. Merlin and Mordred were jostled several times until Mordred dragged Merlin against the closest building to avoid the stampede. The pavement was clear nearly all at once, the crowd vanishing, leaving them in the middle of a double-handful of nephilim, but they stayed their ground. Merlin pushed Mordred hard. " _Run_."

"From them?" Mordred asked, incredulous. Incubus though he was, he was still a full demon, with powers that eclipsed those of a mere nephilim. He must have seen Morgause, because the cockiness faded from his expression. He staggered a few feet away, as if trying to distance himself from Merlin, but stopped, probably realizing it was too late for any real denial, anyway. "Shite."

Morgause sauntered a few steps from the pavement on the other side of the road, golden curls bouncing with the movement, blue eyes sparkling. Her eyeliner was too thick, her lipstick too pink, and her smile too bright for the situation. She thrust out one hip, thumbs looping through the belt buckle loops, raising her chin smugly.

"The famous Executioner," she said.

Merlin felt Mordred's eyes on him. "Please, don't," Mordred murmured. "You're too pissed --"

"The famous…" Merlin ignored Mordred's groan and offered Morgause an apologetic shrug, doing his best to appear contrite. "I'm sorry, who are you again?"

Morgause's smirk faded. Her mouth twisted into a nasty scowl. Her eyes narrowed and darkened. A crackle of magic blazed through the air.

Morgause was the sort of piecemeal sorcerer that Merlin had fought against his entire life. Talented but impatient, intelligent but easily bored. The traditional route was too long and too boring for someone who wanted immediate results, and lessons about maintaining balance and avoiding magic's use for personal gain were overlooked in favour of ways to tilt the glory in her favour and in reflecting the blowback onto someone else.

If that meant trading someone's karma or sucking their power to make herself stronger, Morgause would do it. She was a one-trick pony with a spare trick up her sleeve, and all sorts of underhanded, nasty charms in her pockets. Since Merlin's karma wasn't going to win anyone a prize, there was only one thing Morgause wanted with him.

Well. He did have a bad habit of poking the dragon.

"Fuck. Shite. Bollocks," Mordred hissed. He held up his hands and took a deliberate step back. Louder, he announced, "I'm not with him."

A nearby nephilim turned her gun on Mordred and gestured for him to return.

Mordred dropped his arms, sneered, and said, "Really? Me…" He gestured toward himself before waving a dismissive hand in the woman's direction. "Against you? Do you even know who I am?"

"Let him go," Morgause said. She raised her arm, her hand in a fist, her attention fixed on Merlin. Merlin reached for his magic, and it reached back, only to slip through his grasp. Morgause spread her hand out, palm down. "He's of no interest to me."

"That's right," Mordred said, walking away. His voice was empty of bravado when he whispered, "Sorry, Merlin."

"Right," Merlin said.

He searched through his pockets. He hadn't had the time to restock supplies since rescuing Arthur, but it wasn't like he expected a magical showdown, either. His fingers brushed against a bent copper penny, a single set of finger and claw that must have broken from the cursed chicken's leg, and a couple of scraps of paper of the wrong texture to be anything but bits of rubbish and shop receipts.

He shot Mordred a glance and forced a smile. "See you later."

"Good luck," Mordred said. He took a few more steps before running away.

Merlin shouldn't have taken his eyes away from Morgause. That moment of distraction was the opening that Morgause needed. Merlin just barely caught a tendril of the magic rustling under his skin to throw up a shield to deflect Morgause's blow.

She wasn't particularly powerful, Merlin reminded himself. But when a fireball crashed through his shield and caught him on the shoulder before he could dodge away, how much power she had didn't matter when he could barely defend himself.

His head pounded. His stomach roiled. He hadn't eaten a solid meal in days. The only fuel he had was the remnants of alcohol breaking down in his body, and his vision was already blurred without Morgause helping him see double.

Merlin rolled onto his side. He struggled to his feet. Morgause began a forbidden incantation that was far too familiar. She didn't care if he died, but she would take his magic from him first.

He grasped at magic too keen to come to his call. It slid through his will like water, crashing into him, _through_ him, too quickly to catch, and what little he was able to capture through the sieve of his mind sputtered in response to his fuzzy attempts to _do_ something.

"The old fashioned way, then," Merlin muttered.

His fingers twined around the chicken toe. He threw out his hand, struggling to remember the words.

"Morrigu! Morrigu! Morrigu! I invoke thee! Bones of --"

One of the nephilim came at him. Merlin backed away, ducking when the nephilim threw a punch. The man's fist connected with brick and he let out a pained cry.

"Bones of anger, bones to dust. I scatter this bone, this bone of rage --"

The nephilim's fist connected, this time, and Merlin went down with a grunt. He spat out blood and focussed on it, dropping the chicken finger on top of the splatter.

Morgause's incantation was getting louder and faster as she hurried to get to the end. Merlin glared at her, only to be distracted when the nephilim came at him again.

Merlin blocked the nephilim's punch and barely caught the knee to the gut in time. But the elbow, he watched it come at him in slow motion, and when it connected with his face, it sent him flying through the air.

He shook his head to clear it, struggling to his feet. He felt the bone crush under his foot.

Blood magic. Bone magic.

"With these bones I crush, make my enemy turn to dust --"

The Goddess answered Merlin's prayer in a glowing flash of light that burned a triskelion between Merlin and Morgause, the three arms forming raven's wings. At the same time, Morgause completed her incantation, and a glowing ring of sickly green magic formed around Merlin.

The Morrigan's curse fizzled. Merlin's magic, emboldened by the focus of the hex, rose up to fuel the curse before it faded out completely. Morgause's ring closed, and --

Merlin gasped, clutching his chest. His magic retreated at a rapid spiral, thudding within Merlin with a staccato triple-punch. The hex faded.

The single circle doubled. It tripled. Large, cutting swaths of runes appeared within each ring, dripping greenish magic as if it were blood. When the rings were full, the runes glowed, bright and orange, and throbbed that ghastly, awful green.

And Merlin screamed.

This spell, this forbidden magic, it was wrong. _Wrong_. It was meant to funnel magic, to draw it away from the source, regardless of the source. The earth, an object, a creature, a person. And magic it drew away, but somehow, _somehow_ , those claws digging through Merlin's body, searching for and scavenging every bit it could find, it dug deeper and deeper, until it latched onto Merlin's very soul.

It pulled with a suction that Merlin was powerless against. His magic tore out of him with a torturous rip, single thread by thread, unfolding like a complex knot, becoming ever larger and larger until --

The wrench was at his core, latching onto that connection between life and death, and --

Merlin opened his eyes, blind of anything but the golden light of his magic, of a redoubled image of himself being yanked out, and --

"Impossible," Morgause said, sounding afraid.

 

 

 

 

It hurt. It _hurt_. It tore and pulled and burned. It broke, it shattered, it --

It _reformed_ with a wordless shout of denial, of a body washed clean of doubt, intent on one thing and one thing only, and that was to _live_.

Lightning flashed. Power swelled. Merlin _thundered_.

Magic pulsed out like a tsunami wave, crashing down from where it was drawn out and returning to its source, breaking through the sickly-green entrapment ring. It lashed out wildly, _un_ making nephilim, splicing them of their angelic essence and human souls. Cars up-ended, windows shattered, buildings _moved_.

Merlin heard gunfire as he dropped to the ground, weak and disjointed, as if he no longer fit in his own skin. He closed his eyes, too weak to fight anymore, and the last thing he heard was someone shouting his name.

"Arthur", he whispered, and let himself fall to the void.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"We have got to stop meeting like this," Arthur murmured under his breath, tapping Merlin's knee to make a space to sit on the couch. He nudged Merlin's hip until Merlin grudgingly made room for him and accepted the ice pack -- a proper one, this time -- from George.

Merlin side-eyed him and wrenched the frozen gel pack from Arthur's hands, placing it gingerly against his jaw.

The physical injuries weren't terrible. A cut on his cheek, a bruise on his face, the fading imprint of someone's ring on Merlin's temple. Merlin had refused a more thorough examination, either because he was _shy_ , of all things, or he didn't want Arthur to know how badly he was hurt.

Arthur wasn't worried about Merlin's body. Broken bones would heal, torn skin would scar. The pain Merlin was hiding reached deep into the soul, leaving Merlin haunted and pale.

Arthur had arrived on the scene in the aftermath of magical blowback powerful enough to make the universe shudder. Buildings near the epicentre had shifted several centimetres, heavy automobiles were tilted on their sides or flipped over entirely. Windows had shattered, glass particles shimmering toward the ground like snowflakes. Arthur had never encountered anything like that before, and he'd gleefully gotten to his feet, absolutely certain that he knew what had caused it.

He'd been right.

When he'd arrived, Morgause scrambled to her feet in a frightened daze, only to turn and run away. The nephilim who had survived were quickly eliminated by Arthur's men.

And Merlin…

Merlin had curled in on himself, arms clinging to his own body as if he were trying to keep himself together. He may very well have been trying to do just that, because for several uncomfortable, absolutely terrifying moments, a ghostly double had layered on top of the physical before finally settling into Merlin's skin.

Merlin had fallen unconscious when Arthur had knelt down next to him.

He'd felt Merlin's power in the core of his bones, and he was certain that all of the denizens of Heaven and Hell would come down to investigate soon. Bringing Merlin to the safety of his flat was Arthur's only recourse.

And here they were: Merlin splayed out on the couch, Arthur hovering over him like a mother hen. It was reminiscent of the time Arthur had engineered a little test to draw Merlin's power to the fore, to encourage him to use the magic he'd long since suppressed.

Looking at Merlin now, it seemed that he would never be able to deny himself his magic again. From the sullen set of his mouth and the despair in his eyes, Merlin knew it, too.

Arthur reached to brush a strand of hair from Merlin's forehead. He was slapped for his trouble. He sighed heavily, struggling for patience to defend against the sheer hatred in Merlin's eyes.

"Dinner is ready," George said, breaking the tense silence. "I've run a bath. I would be pleased to start a load of laundry --"

"That'll be all, George. Thank you," Arthur said, his dismissal firm. As glad as he was that George was willing to take care of Merlin, this was something that Arthur wanted to do.

"Shall I make the rounds of your instructors to gather your school assignments?" George asked.

Arthur watched a faint smirk appear on Merlin's lips at George's subtle admonishment, only to disappear less than a second later at the reminder that Arthur was so much younger than he was. That was exactly what Arthur had hoped to avoid.

Arthur managed to temper his glare when he glanced at George and said, "Yes. And do get started on it, if you please."

"Of course, Sire," George said. A faint click of his heels preceded a quick shuffle across the flat before George left them with a subtle _click_ of the door locking behind him.

"You should go," Merlin said, closing his eyes. He shifted on the couch, stretching long legs as much as he could, resting an arm across his chest as if his only plans for the immediate future was to lie there.

Arthur shrugged out of his school jacket and flung it onto the armchair on the other side of the coffee table. After a moment of consideration, Arthur forcibly wedged himself onto the sofa, ignoring the startled protests as he straddled Merlin's hips. He leaned over Merlin, hands on the sofa's arm-rest, and smiled.

"You're attracted to me. I'm quite taken with you. However, your resistance is infuriating, and I have no time nor inclination for games. Let's get this out of the way. Is it my age?"

"Arthur --"

"Surely you're observant enough to notice that I'm past the age of consent," Arthur said, crushing whatever argument Merlin had been about to make. "So, if it's not my age, what is it, then? Perhaps my name? I can't do anything about that. The media quite enjoys plastering _Pendragon_ across its society pages, and I intend that they continue to do so for a very, very long time."

"I don't --"

"All that bollocks no doubt swirling through your head -- it amazes me, really. I've provided you with a closet full of clothes that would suit you far better than the rags you insist on wearing. A haircut, a shave --" Arthur tilted his head, evaluating Merlin carefully. "It won't take much to clean you up, and you'll be more than fit to stand by my side. I don't care what the pedants will say about it, and neither should you."

An angry sound followed a sigh of frustration, but Arthur didn't give Merlin a chance to speak.

"It must be the other thing," Arthur said softly, pretending to come to that realization. He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "I don't understand. It can't possibly bother you. You've come for me. You've fought for me. You get completely absolutely bladdered and maudlin because of me. There are no tests on this mortal plane that can measure the depths of my intelligence, and yet, I fail to understand this puzzle. Explain it to me, Merlin. What's holding you back?"

"Get off," Merlin snapped. He tossed the ice pack to the coffee table, where it slipped and fell to the ground.

"That's what I'd like to do," Arthur said sincerely.

"You're such a spoilt prat," Merlin snapped. "Move. Let me up."

Merlin pushed himself into a sitting position. Arthur dropped his full weight down to keep Merlin immobile. Merlin swung a fist. Arthur caught his wrist, then the other when Merlin tried to hit him again. He pinned Merlin to the sofa, holding him in place easily whenever Merlin struggled. In less time than Arthur expected, Merlin quieted down, growing slack beneath him.

 

 

 

 

That probably had more to do with exhaustion than anything else, but Arthur would take it.

"Is it Will, then?" Arthur asked, letting go of Merlin. He nuzzled Merlin's brow and kissed his forehead. "I don't know what he was to you. A friend. A lover. A brother in all but blood. But I am not Will."

Arthur's research had only taken him so far. There was little that he could do when the information he had collected over the years amounted to rumours and hearsay. Merlin had grown up with Will. By every account, they were close. Will was something of a womanizer, but the women he slept with were always one-offs, and he would always return to Merlin. Merlin, on the other hand, kept to himself, and any actual relationships had been few and far between.

If there was anything that Arthur did know with absolute certainty, it was that Will had been the catalyst to Merlin's downward spiral.

Arthur pressed a palm to Merlin's cheek. Merlin's mouth was set in a tight line, his gaze averted, his nostrils flared. Arthur waited. He had time.

There was something else that Arthur knew, too. He understood it far better than Merlin, who seemed to have no idea how strong he was. How important. How _powerful_.

Where Arthur had been taught to thrive in how attractive he was to others and how to manipulate those people for his own ends, Merlin had learned to fear himself and what he could do, changing how he lived and the direction of his career until it served a single purpose. And that purpose wasn't Merlin's own.

Arthur had never met the Great Dragon, but he would, one day. On that day, Arthur would make him pay.

"May I show you something?" Arthur asked, keeping his voice soft and inviting.

"No," Merlin bit out.

"Very well," Arthur sighed. He sat back on his haunches and looked at Merlin with disappointment. With a resigned nod, he climbed out of Merlin's lap and from the sofa. He ran his hands through his hair and moved around the coffee table to retrieve his jacket. A quick text to Gwaine confirmed that he was still waiting outside, watchful for the enemy.

Arthur doubted that Morgana would try anything else so soon after Merlin had overcome whatever Morgause had attempted, but Arthur wasn't interested in taking any chances.

"You heard George," Arthur said, draping his jacket over his arm. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt sleeves and rolled them up to his elbows. "Dinner is ready. Please, _eat_."

Merlin unfolded himself from the sofa, putting his feet on the floor. He stared at Arthur dubiously, but didn't speak.

Arthur gestured toward the bathroom. "Also, he ran a bath. If I know George, he's put salts in -- good for muscle soreness and other aches and pains, and it'll draw off any residual negative energy that Morgause might have left behind. It would be a pity to waste it. Have a soak before it gets cold."

A quick flick of his wrist and Arthur was reminded of the time. He didn't have anywhere to be and had no intention of returning to school. The only place left would be his loft, where…

Arthur huffed to himself and turned for the door.

He had battle plans to review, resources to contact, policemen to bribe. The street CCTVs no doubt had captured some footage of Morgause's attack on Merlin, and he intended on squashing it. Mordred had made himself scarce after calling Leon to advise of the situation, and Arthur wanted to confirm that he hadn't vanished completely.

He was returning to the relative quiet that was his penthouse flat to _work._ He was not going to mope because Merlin had turned him down. Again.

Arthur's hand was on the doorknob when Merlin asked, "That's it?"

"Pardon?" Arthur asked, playing innocent. His hand slipped from the doorknob and he turned around.

Merlin scratched his cheek with the flat of his hand. He grimaced and glanced away, almost as if admonishing himself, and repeated, "That's it?"

"I don't follow," Arthur said, frowning at a piece of lint on his jacket. He picked it off.

Merlin scoffed. "All this, and nothing? You want to show me something, I say no, and you give up? I'm supposed to believe you'll let it go that easily?"

Arthur sighed heavily and stared heavenward, tracing the warding circle painted on the ceiling. He debated on how best to answer and settled on, "In many ways, I am my Father's son. Unlike God -- unlike _Kilgharrah_ \-- I value free will. Really, _Mer_ lin. It's as if you don't understand me at all."

"I don't," Merlin snapped, standing up suddenly. He tottered on uncertain legs and held himself very still, his hands trembling. He balled them up into fists. "I _don't_. You make no sense. I don't know why you -- why you even…"

Merlin bit off his own words and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He dropped his arm and stared beseechingly at Arthur.

"What do you want?"

A small smile curled at Arthur's lips. He lowered his head and watched Merlin through hooded eyes. "How do you not know the answer to that question? How do you not know that I want _you_?"

"To do your dirty work," Merlin said. He was sullen, angry, and vibrating with unrestrained emotion.

" _No_ ," Arthur barked. His amusement was gone. He advanced on Merlin, dropping his coat on a chair, and said, "No. Absolutely not. I am hardly a dragon imprisoned in a cell of its own making, clawing at the firmament for a peek at the world, reaching out with guileful words and broken promises in exchange for tasks performed in this mundane plane. I am not a puppeteer."

Merlin held his ground, a veil covering his eyes, hiding his emotions. Arthur took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. If anyone else had challenged him, he wouldn't be so generous. But this was _Merlin_ , and Arthur found himself wanting to do well by him.

"I want you however I can have you, Merlin," Arthur said. "Coming to my rescue. Watching me from afar. Working in the shadows to protect me. If that is all that you're willing to give, then…"  
Arthur spread his hands.

"That's all that I will take." Arthur tried to catch Merlin's gaze. "Of course, that doesn't mean I won't always ask for more. Because I want more, Merlin. I will keep asking until you tell me in no uncertain terms that you don't want me, too."

Merlin's mouth quirked in a half-smile that he was clearly fighting. He turned away, but not before Arthur saw the tips of his ears reddening.

Arthur followed after Merlin, resisting the urge to grab him. Arthur didn't like how vulnerable he felt, how easily he felt prey to Merlin's whims. It was desperation that drove him now, unwilling to let Merlin go when Merlin would be his undoing. "Do you?"

"Do I what?" Merlin asked. He headed for the kitchen, fingers tapping on the fixed plates that George had left out, the Tupperware with leftovers.

Arthur leaned against the counter. He crossed his arms. He watched Merlin until Merlin turned around, clearly expecting an answer. Arthur elected to remain silent, allowing Merlin to take the question however he would, but he didn't expect the eyeroll he received in response, the annoyed shrug, the capitulation.

"What did you want to show me?" Merlin asked.

A knot loosened in Arthur's chest. He blinked, not quite sure what to make of the sensation, and found himself at a loss for all of a moment before he said, "My Kingdom and your place in it. If you want it."

Merlin huffed a disbelieving laugh and shook his head.

Arthur held out his hand. "Can you trust me?"

"I don't know. Can I?" Merlin asked. Unexpectedly, he took Arthur's hand, and Arthur ignored the flutter in his belly, studying instead the scrapes and cuts on Merlin's fingers, old scars commemorating rough times, calluses speaking of hard work.

Arthur guided Merlin to the bathroom. He felt Merlin hesitate, and his hand nearly slipped out of Arthur's grasp. Arthur opened the door, releasing a heady waft of steam, and revealed the candle-lit room, the line of salt around the standalone tub, the bluish tinge of water deep enough to sit and settle and soak.

"Arthur," Merlin said.

Arthur found he couldn't look at Merlin, not now. He let go of Merlin's hand. "You know how this works. It's your choice. You can tell me to go, if that's what you want."

Merlin didn't answer.

Arthur drummed his fingers on his thighs. He studied the bathroom, idly redecorating it. Polished basalt slabs instead of cheap linoleum. The same motif along one wall. Handmade cabinets to replace the cheap setup from the hardware store. A motion sensor fountain faucet in a raised frosted glass bowl rather than the cracked white porcelain that had probably been retrieved from a gas station bathroom.

The window would go. A full length one to replace it, lightly frosted to match the sink and to let in natural light. Arthur quite liked the tub, since it was large and roomy, but it could use some updating, and a proper shower would go in the corner.

He ignored the mirror. If he looked, he'd see Merlin's expression, and Arthur didn't want to know what he was thinking. He didn't know what it was like to be afraid of something, but he was certainly _concerned_ that Merlin was taking so long to answer.

Merlin's hand was a firm, grounding weight on his shoulder, settling Arthur's nerves. He stopped fidgeting and waited for Merlin to tell him, _Go away_.

Except that didn't happen. Merlin gently pushed him aside. He kicked off his boots. He pulled his button-down and undershirt over his head. He yanked his socks off.

He stepped into the tub.

Merlin sank gingerly, adjusting for the temperature, and Arthur drank in every inch of it, memorizing this tantalizing sight of a half-naked Merlin, skin wet, lean muscle glistening as if rubbed by oil. He was too thin; his ribs showed along his sides, in the hollow of a belly that hadn't eaten in too long, and Arthur…  
Arthur knelt next to the tub, wanting nothing more than to take care of Merlin. "You don't have to do this."

"You gave me a choice," Merlin said, meeting Arthur's eyes. "I've decided."

"If you're sure," Arthur said.

Merlin barked a short laugh. "Are you trying to talk me out of this?"

Arthur smiled wanly. He ran his hand behind Merlin's head and pulled him close, leaning in to press a light, chaste kiss on his lips.

"Why would I go and do something dumb like that?"

Arthur guided Merlin into the water. He held Merlin down until he drowned.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _Blue_.

Arthur's eyes were like the cloudless sky on a bright sunny day mirroring the crisp, clear sea. The bathwater rippled, and Merlin could almost believe that Arthur was crying for him.

The water settled. The surface was still.

All Merlin needed to do was _breathe_.

And drown.

A circular ripple disturbed the bathwater. Merlin frowned, watching as the lines were adsorbed into the water. It took him a few uncomfortably long seconds before he realized that the surface hadn't been marred by condensation dripping down, or from a leak in the ceiling.

He met Arthur's eyes. Whether Arthur realized it or not, that had been a teardrop. He squeezed Arthur's wrist, sliding his hand down, intending on getting out of the water --

Arthur held him firm.

Blue eyes darkened. Blackened.

Merlin kicked out, struggling for leverage. His feet slipped against the ceramic. He twisted his body only to slide right back to where he'd been, helpless and without recourse. Magic tickled under his skin, ready to lash out, but he held it back, just barely, because…

Because.

 _Arthur_. He's chosen to trust Arthur. He didn't want to be wrong.

In the crash of splashing water, Merlin made out a blurry overlay on Arthur's aura. He couldn't make out what it was. Dark, blurry, dripping with a miasma of chaotic emotions, it seemed to take the shape of a great beast. Red eyes gleamed and lips pulled back to reveal white fangs in a terrible maw. The creature roared at a supernatural pitch that reverberated under water, igniting Merlin's magic, ripping it from his control, and --

_Stop_

Water exploded from the tub and froze in motion. Ceramic cracked and split apart like shattered glass, held together by the suspension of time. Gold-white magic tangled with black-red power on an ethereal plane.

And Merlin?

Merlin _fell_.

He fell so far and so fast that the world was a cold rush of swirling masses. Twisted faces and disembodied limbs snatched at his body and slowed his descent, dragging him away. A warning growl, fearsome and formidable, scattered the undesirables. Merlin was released, and with that freedom came a strange sense of safety and reassurance.

Merlin blinked.

This was no earth that he had ever seen. No land that he had ever known. The sky was painted in dull russet shades, a blood-red sun burning down through swirling black smoke and lumbering grey clouds. The ground was scoured clean until it was nothing more than rust-coloured dirt, cracked pieces of pavement, and wisps of grass long since dried out and dead.

Brownstone-and-mortar walls stood fast against a blistering, burning wind. Piles of broken brick were randomly scattered around square ruins bleached a peach colour by the sun. Rotted signs wilted like dead flowers. Streetlights toppled over and shattered into pieces. Tumbleweeds as sharp as barbed wire rolled past.

Bleak and desolate, the landscape shimmered with an ethereal quality -- existing both in time and outside of it. The _frisson_ of stepping into another dimension was lacking. The oppressive heat of Hell was missing. The transparency of illusion was lacking.

This place, this time, it was real. Maybe not for him, because he wasn't really here. This time, this place, it hadn't happened yet.

Merlin walked a few feet, emerging from around a brick wall. He stopped short.

In the distance, the remnants of Big Ben stretched out toward the Heavens, deteriorating steel girders taking the role of fingers reaching for what it would never grasp. The bridge was gone, but the supports remained, and as Merlin watched, the winds jarred loose a chunk of metal that tumbled down to drop into the sand.

"This isn't convincing me," Merlin muttered.

 _Let me show you,_ Arthur had said. _My Kingdom and your place in it._

Whatever event had overcome London and left its bones decaying in the sand was one that hadn't happened yet and one that might never come to pass. Arthur was showing Merlin one of many possible futures, but if this one was what he chose to convince Merlin, he had chosen poorly.

" _Em-ryss_."

Merlin turned around at the hiss. He wrenched back in revulsion at the demon jerkily crawling around a pile of sandy bricks. Its appendages were thin and had an extra joint; its fingers and toes were long and oblong. Bone wrapped its torso from the outside-in, and its face was missing, replaced by a mouth full of needle-sharp teeth.

It chittered. Tilted its head in increments. Gasped as if gagging, gulping in the air.

" _Em-ryss,_ " it said again, almost pleading. It crawled forward, closing the distance by half every time Merlin took a step back and moving faster with every step. Merlin didn't know what it wanted, but it was a _demon_ , and the needs of a demon were simple.

Eat, fuck, kill.

Before Merlin could draw on magic to defend himself, a figure leaped over the low brick wall and stabbed a sword through the demon's mouth.

Too distracted by the sight of an old-fashioned blade pinning the creature to the ground, Merlin didn't notice who had come to his rescue until he spoke.

"Why are you standing around like a bloody numpty? Get to the fucking shelter," Mordred growled, drawing his sword back with an angry yank. Incubus didn't age, but Mordred looked older, anyway, with grey in his hair and crow's feet crinkling at the corners of his eyes. He was thinner, somehow, as if starved of proper nutrition, his frame narrow and lean, his clothing loose where it hung from his shoulders.

"Sorry?" Merlin offered.

Mordred wiped the ichor from his blade with a scrap of crusty clothing saturated with demon blood. "I said --"

Mordred trailed off, his jaw dropping.

"Merlin?"

Merlin spread his hands questioningly, offering Mordred a raised brow. He was about to ask, _What's going on?_ When --

Merlin realized that he _knew_. It came to him in a flooding rush of fragmented information washing through him and left him swaying on his feet. The images were without context, presented as a montage in reverse chronology, running time backward from the present moment to the distant past.

And now --

There was war. A war so old that no human could comprehend the breadth of it. The earth became a new battleground marked with the graves of countless mortals who had become cannon fodder, collateral damage, _cattle._

No one was safe.

The angels had come, walking upon a ground long forbidden to them, though they were hardly saviours, caring nothing for Man when there were demons for them to kill.

Survivors banded together and tried to rebuild in a world that was a cruel wasteland of poisoned water and scarce food. The earth stormed and scoured the planet. Civilization crumbled.

Billions of people died.

A nuclear winter. Bombs launched from multiple countries, some simultaneously, others one after the other. Civil wars, riots, looting. Corrupt politicians, increasing violence, an amassment of troops and advanced weaponry adding to underlying tensions. Ration lines, food shortages, rising employment rates, recession. A healthy economy tumbling down at roller-coaster speeds, increasing taxes punishing lower-income families.

And beneath it all lay nothing but hatred. Every act possessed an underlying sensation of resentment and rage.

History tumbled into an era more familiar to Merlin, focusing every event and timeline to one event and one event alone --

 _"I should have said yes a long time ago," Merlin murmured, staring dazedly at the blood on his hand. He didn't feel any pain, but from the hollow in his soul, he knew it was a grievous wound. "I always meant to. It… It was never the right time."_  
__  
_His magic faltered, slipping away from him. Clinically, he realized that the bullet must have been cursed in some way, perhaps warded or hexed against magic. With the sniper still hidden somewhere, firing on the panicking crowd, Merlin didn't dare dream of asking Arthur to try to save him when he was in danger._  
__  
_Merlin glanced at Leon, who loomed behind Arthur protectively, the ephemeral weight of his angel wings giving a measure of protection. Leon seemed to understand what Merlin couldn't say with words, because he nodded and put a strong hand on Arthur's shoulder, ready to pull him away._  
__  
_Merlin touched Arthur's cheek, staining it with blood. He drew clumsily with his thumb, willing a_ blessing _that Arthur do whatever he could to raze his enemies._  
__  
_"Merlin," Arthur whispered, his eyes watery, his mouth parted in grief. He glanced at the wound brokenly, and it took Merlin a moment to realize that Arthur was trying to heal him. "Tell me what to do. Tell me how to save you."_  
__  
_Merlin shook his head. He offered Arthur a small smile. "You could do_ so much _. Don't let this change you."_  
__  
_Leon dragged a struggling Arthur away. Merlin watched him go through blurred vision that greyed out more and more at the edges._  
_  
__"I love you," he whispered._

Merlin felt a sharp stab of pain in his chest. His heart stuttered.

"You're dead," Mordred blurted out. "You _died_."

Merlin felt the snap as surely as if he himself had lost control. It was a taut line, frayed and worn, finally breaking apart after too long under strain. Incubuses were just as capable of emitting emotion as they were to absorb it, and Mordred was full of grief, sadness, and anger.

Mordred's eyes flashed bright lavender. His skin roughened, cracking into snake scales. Fangs dropped from his mouth --

Merlin stared, fascinated, because for as long as he'd known Mordred, he'd never seen the incubus as he really was.

\-- and Mordred _lunged_.

Instinct stirred Merlin's magic before he thought of a single defensive spell. Power wrapped around Mordred easily, bright and golden, and Merlin stared, because his magic -- his magic wasn't like _this_. He'd tainted it through misuse and had locked it away lest it fester more. Even when he reached for it, his magic was sluggish, a sometimes-painful tingle under his skin.

It was as if he'd been reborn, all his sins washed away, his magic cleansed and pure again.

Merlin's surprise was reflected in Mordred's expression. He could tell when the danger had passed, because Mordred's eyes cooled to a lighter colour, his skin smoothed out, his fangs retracted. His magic reacted to that realization, fading away without needing to be forced to obey.

"It's you," Mordred said, awed. He stepped forward and was about to say more, only to suddenly snap to alertness, raising his sword.

Merlin turned on his heels, only to stumble at the sudden shock of pain through his chest. He put a hand over his heart and --

 _Wet_.

"Oi! Mordred! I know you haven't Fed in ages, but we've got to keep moving," Leon barked tiredly, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He dropped his arm and glanced from Mordred to Merlin, stumbling to a clumsy stop as recognition dawned in his eyes.

Merlin had only met Leon twice, but a part of him could sense that something was wrong. Leon was worse for wear. Tangled hair tied back in a knotted bun. Smears of dirt and dried blood on his face. A scar cutting diagonally from his left eyebrow to his right cheek.

The sky darkened. Splotches of black filled the sky. The earth vibrated as if a million ants twitched under the surface, and sunburnt shapes crawled out the ground.

"They're coming," Leon said, snapping out of his surprise to watch the sky with a grim expression. "We don't want to be here when they clash. You didn't find anyone else?"

"No," Mordred said.

"All right," Leon said. He met Merlin's eyes and hesitated. "You should --"

He cut himself off at the sound of approaching footsteps and an oddly comforting -- and threatening -- jingle of metal against metal. Several shadows rippled over the ground, growing larger the nearer they came. Several men and women rounded the corner from the crumbling brick wall.

Percival, large, tall, broad-shouldered, his chest and arms criss-crossed with leather straps, a coarse cloth around his shoulders, a pair of clear goggles hanging from his neck. Gwaine, long hair made wild by the wind, the short beard on his cheek highlighting, rather than masking, the three jagged scars along his jaw. Freya, a long leather overcoat slapping at her calves, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, black wrist-length gloves stark against pale skin.

There were more, but none that Merlin recognized, even if he was inclined to look. His attention was drawn to the stark vibrancy and contrast of colour worn by one person. Black trousers tucked in knee-high boots. Blood red overcoat falling to mid-thigh, its hood covering the man's head.

Blond hair like spun gold. Blue eyes like the sky before the nuclear war had burned that colour from creation. A scruff of a beard, high cheekbones over a strong jaw.

Arthur.

He was older. Twenty years, maybe more. It was difficult to tell how much time had actually passed since Merlin had supposedly… _died_ , before he'd stepped into the tub and allowed Arthur to hold him down so that he could glimpse into the future. Arthur had grown. He was a little taller. Broader. Solid.

Strong.

Merlin winced. He hurt. It was a physical pain that stabbed through his chest, manifesting an ache at knowing that he hadn't been able to watch Arthur come into his own.

He wondered if that might have been a good thing. There was a hollow in Arthur's eyes. Cold detachment, indifference, a barely-veiled capacity for incredible cruelty and little room for mercy.

And then --

Then.

Arthur turned his gaze on Merlin. He continued to advance, and with each step, the ice in his eyes melted away, revealing pure, undiluted hatred and rage. Merlin took an involuntary step back at the force of the emotion, only to grasp his chest at another sudden stab of pain.

This time, Merlin didn't feel wetness on his palm. He felt the sticky sluice of blood.

He stumbled, suddenly weak. He swayed, the ground no longer steady under his feet, and --

" _No_ ," Arthur growled. Strong arms caught Merlin before he collapsed, lowering him gently. "No. Damn her! I've given her everything. I swore if -- she was supposed to leave me alone. Why is she making me watch him die again? I'm not -- I've…"

The sob that tore out of his chest was tempered by a snarl. Merlin could see Arthur -- _Arthur_ as he truly was, beneath the human façade, the Beast of Hell, the Scourge of Heaven, the King of Kings on Earth. Arthur's aura snarled, monstrous and terrifying, but muzzled, collared, and shackled behind a cage.

 

 

 

 

Clawed fingers curled around Merlin's throat and squeezed. "I'm going to kill it. It's not real. It's not him."

"I should have said yes," Merlin blurted out. Only three people would have known Merlin's last words. He stared at the blood in his hands, and _fuck_ if it didn't hurt as his death caught up with him. There hadn't been any pain in his inherited memory.

Arthur's hand wrenched back as if burned. His mouth parted, and his eyes clouded with confusion before giving way to recognition. Syllables formed on his lips only to be left unvoiced. When Arthur finally spoke, it was with strangled desperation. "Say yes now. Let me --"

Merlin reached to grab Arthur's jacket. He had so many things he wanted to say, so many things he wanted to ask. But his hand fell uselessly to the coarse ground, and he stared at a russet sky darkened by a multitude of angel wings. His vision greyed at the edges, and he struggled to hang on for just one minute more, to have the breath to make the choice Arthur refused to take away from him.

The world went dark in a terrible, burning gasp as Merlin was _pulled_ out of Arthur's arms. He was left with an unearthly howl ringing in his soul, full of rage and pain and grief.

Time and space snapped with an echoing click. Merlin was jarred by the collision of two very different types of magic, two different universes, two different Arthurs. Bathwater exploded, spraying everywhere. The tub continued to shatter, scattering sharp pieces like shrapnel, catching Arthur on the brow. The piping burst, and --

Merlin tumbled forward, following Arthur as Arthur was thrown back. Arthur landed with a thump on the floor. Merlin landed on top of him, panting, gasping for air..

Startled confusion filled Arthur's eyes as he glanced from the remnants of the bathtub to Merlin. "It didn't work?"

 _It worked_ , Merlin wanted to say. It had worked too well. He'd seen more than he should have of a future that was assured to happen if things continued along the current path. The nuclear disaster, the damnation of Mankind, the war between Heaven and Hell -- it would haunt him for eternity, reminding him that this was the outcome of his own fear. That knowledge was tempered with the realization that Arthur had given up everything, that he had _capitulated_ and given up his destined throne, all because of Merlin.

Merlin didn't know what would happen if Arthur's ascent to his power and position was allowed to continue unhindered. He didn't know what would happen if he stayed at Arthur's side. All he knew was that he would rather not damn Arthur to a lifetime of grief and torment.

"Yes," Merlin said.

Arthur drew back, unsure. It took him only a moment to realize what Merlin meant, and his mouth parted in surprise.

"Merlin?" Arthur asked. Confusion coloured his expression, and that emotion was better that than the soul-deep grief of an Arthur who had watched Merlin die before his eyes.

Twice.

Merlin touched Arthur's cheek. He offered up a weak, wry smile. He hoped Arthur wouldn't ask why, because he didn't have the words beyond the knowledge that he was tired of denying himself what he wanted.

"I'm saying yes."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The stone bowl clinked on the metal countertop, the noise barely audible in the sombre disquiet that was Merlin's ritual room. The paintbrush rolled off the edge and _thudded_ faintly on the concrete floor. Merlin startled, and Arthur thought Merlin would have had less of a reaction if he'd rung a Cathedral bell.

"Out with it, then," Arthur said, taking a step back and crossing his arms.

"What?" Merlin asked.

Arthur gestured over Merlin's body. Merlin sat on the worktable, his head down, his hands firmly grasping the edges, knuckles white with suppressed fear. If Merlin let go, he would most likely shake and shudder, just as he had for long minutes after the bath. "Whatever has you wound up. Tell me. Does it have to do with what you saw across the veil? Why won't you tell me what it was?"

Merlin rubbed his hand over his forehead, shielding his eyes from Arthur. His shoulders slumped, but there was no defeat in them, only resignation. "What did you mean for me to see?"

Arthur moved to stand between Merlin's legs and placed his hands on Merlin's thighs. Merlin glanced down at the contact. Arthur bowed his head, nuzzling Merlin's temple before pressing a kiss into that spot. He smiled at Merlin's small hitch of breath, but the smile gave away to a frown of concern. "Clearly not what you experienced."

Merlin didn't answer. He turned his head away. Arthur considered him for several long moments before shrugging.

"Well. I'm not one to complain when I get my way," Arthur murmured, reaching up to run his fingers through Merlin's damp hair. "I won't even ask if you're certain. You might change your mind, and we can't have that, can we?"

Merlin scoffed. It might have been a laugh, but they were so close together that it was hard to tell. Either way, this was more than Arthur had managed to draw out of Merlin since his vision, and he considered it a win. "You're such a prat."

"That I am," Arthur agreed. "Selfish. Spoilt. Entitled. I don't play well with others, and I don't share my toys."

Merlin leaned back, pulling away from Arthur's touch, and looked up. Indescribable emotion coloured his expression. "Is that what I am, then? A toy?"

Arthur measured his answer. Florid words, soothing reassurances, calming tones. He could play to the crowds, he could manipulate stubborn marks, and he would get the end result that he wanted without revealing his agenda. None of that would work on Merlin, so he did the inconceivable, because it seemed to work. He tried the truth. "No."

Merlin swallowed. He chuckled deprecatingly and shook his head. "What am I, then?"

"Mine," Arthur said without hesitation. He reached for the buttons on Merlin's wet trousers. "Let's get these off."

Merlin caught Arthur's hands and held them firm. "Arthur."

Arthur pull away, but neither did he meet Merlin's gaze, knowing that he would reveal far more of himself than he wanted. " _Mine_ , Merlin, and no one else's. On this, there is no compromise."

Merlin's eyes darted past Arthur, focused at something and nothing, and his grasp loosened. Arthur didn't wonder what Merlin had _seen_ with that magical sight of his. He already knew, because he could feel his power scratching under his skin.

Arthur took that as acceptance and undid Merlin's fly. He patted Merlin's hip and roughly ordered, "Off."

He picked up the paintbrush. The body was made of rowanwood, the hairs were the bristle-stiff of white horsetail. Arthur could only assume their origins, given the specificity of sorcerous rites and rituals, but unlike most magic users, Arthur didn't need anything ornate. Half of the ingredients in the ink had been Merlin's suggestions, and Arthur had thrown them in because he couldn't see the harm.

For all of Arthur's sparse education in the art, Arthur didn't use magic. His power could only be classified as celestial, with the might of creation and destruction behind it, bending to shape and reshape events and circumstances to his whim. He didn't need to follow a proscribed ceremony to bind Merlin to him or to be bound in turn, though everything he had done thus far smacked of exactly that -- a ritual, and one that was driven by instinct and need. What he was about to do would tie them both together, and it would do so using the power of Merlin's free will and breath, blood, and flesh.

Those, and spit and semen, but their addition would come later.

"All of it," Arthur said, side-eyeing Merlin and noticing that he was still wearing his pants.

"The table's cold," Merlin complained.

"I voiced my preference, but you didn't want any ink on your bed," Arthur said, placing the bowl next to Merlin. He offered up a shameless smile. "Even though we both know that's where we'll end up, anyway."

Merlin grunted. He squirmed out of his pants without leaving the table and bunched up the material to cover his crotch. Arthur raised a brow.

"Modesty? Really? You're adorable," he said, pinching the underwear with his fingers and flinging them over his shoulder. Merlin squawked in protest and covered himself with his hands. Arthur couldn't help a smile. Merlin really was adorable, to be a man his age and experience, and yet still shy with others. Or perhaps just with Arthur. "Ready?"

Merlin frowned, his expression clouding, and Arthur interrupted him before he could say a word. It wasn't because he thought Merlin would say he changed his mind. It was that…

Arthur shook his head.

"What was I thinking. Forget I asked." Arthur swirled the paintbrush around the bowl, watching as it absorbed the ink. "Why don't you tell me what I'm doing, instead?"

"Don't you know?" Merlin retorted.

"Oh, I do know," Arthur said, glancing at him. "I want to make sure that you do. You're well-learned in all things occult and arcane, but there are many things of the divine and the damned that I look forward to teaching you."

Merlin inclined his head, curious. "Such as?"

"Lay down on the table," Arthur directed, picking up the bowl so that Merlin had the room to move. "Haven't you wondered what it was that Morgause did to you?"

Merlin shifted, though he laid down with a great deal of reluctance. He didn't settle for some time, no doubt waiting for the metal to warm up. Arthur rolled his eyes and pushed Merlin down flat, ignoring his yelp. "Her usual. Sucks the magic out of some poor sod so that she can use it herself."

"Has it ever failed?" Arthur asked, pressing the wet paintbrush at the top of Merlin's foot. Without lifting the brush, he wrote from right to left in Aramaic.

"No," Merlin said, trying not to squirm.

Arthur didn't answer right away. He drew a half-circle around Merlin's knee before continuing with the script, nudging Merlin's arm away from where he was covering his crotch with his hands. He didn't raise the brush until he'd dropped into Merlin's collarbone, and returned to Merlin's foot to start a second line.

_And there was war in heaven: Michael and his angels fought against the dragon; and the dragon fought Michael and his angels, and prevailed not; neither was their place found any more in heaven._

"She's known how to do it for some time, I imagine, but I have no doubt that Morgana taught her how to improve above and beyond her usual crude ritual," Arthur said, letting the ink drip from his paintbrush before placing it on the top of Merlin's foot for the second line.

_And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world: he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him._

"It's Morgana's endowment from our Father, you see," Arthur continued, smiling whenever he saw the tremors under Merlin's skin. Merlin was trying so very hard to stay still and not mar the letters drawn, even though there was no need. Arthur's power had imbued _intention_ into the ink when he'd crushed the herbs Merlin had suggested and mixed all the components together. He could pour the bowl of ink over Merlin's head and the ink would form on his skin in exactly the way they should.

There was no need for a paintbrush. For this elaborate charade. No need whatsoever except to satisfy Merlin's innate need for a proper ritual, even though there was no such thing for what they were about to do. If anything, painting was more for Arthur's personal enjoyment and Merlin's pleasurable torture.

"The Morningstar is very much like a dragon hoarding gold, though His preference is in the collection of souls. His favourites are those He has won through less than honest means, and a signature on a piece of paper is nothing more than a physical representation of His prize."

Arthur started a third line, allowing the brush to dip below the curve of Merlin's thighs. Merlin's breathing deepened, and the one hand covering his cock was doing little to hide his growing erection.

"He doesn't need someone down on their luck to sign over their soul. He can rip them out of their bodies whenever He likes. That's how it works, you see. But He does like His games."

Arthur finished another line, and swatted Merlin's hand aside. A small sound -- like a beached whale trying to wriggle its way into the water -- escaped Merlin's lips, but he moved his hand aside. He was hard, now, his bollocks drawn up, and it was with a gleeful but clinical hand that Arthur moved Merlin's cock so that it angled up and remained out of the way while he added the next two lines.

"I should've gotten you to shave," Arthur remarked, though more for personal aesthetics than anything else. The ink clotted in Merlin's treasure trail for a brief moment before sinking down to the skin to form the symbols that matched Arthur's intention.

Without warning, he leaned down and _blew_ at Merlin's groin, delighting in how Merlin jerked upward, his cock thrusting into Arthur's hand. " _Jesus, fuck, goddamn it --_ "

"Stay still," Arthur admonished, and he didn't bother to hide his grin. He let go of Merlin's cock, picked up the bowl, and moved awkwardly to the other side of the table. The bulge in his trousers was uncomfortable, but at least Merlin wouldn't be able to see it from where he was.

Arthur continued along the other leg in much the same manner as the first, though he switched to a different passage from the book of Revelations.

After a few minutes of silence, Merlin gritted out, "Keep. Talking."

Arthur glanced up from his work, smirking when he saw Merlin's cock leaking. A drop had fallen on his stomach, mixing with but not marring the ink, and the marks _shivered_ with power.

"Where was I?"

"Lucifer and his games," Merlin hissed.

Arthur stopped painting. The brush didn't leave Merlin's skin, the ink diffusing across the surface to twine with other marks on his chest. It wouldn't do to have anger mixing with the emotions already invested in the ritual, so Arthur took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "We don't say His name."

"Right. My mistake," Merlin said. His hands clenched on the edges of the table when Arthur resumed his painting, the knuckles turning white.

Arthur didn't speak again until he finished Merlin's torso and was halfway down his arm.

"I'm sure you're aware of His children," Arthur said, ignoring how his tone had gone flat and emotionless. He wasn't jealous of his half-siblings, but he did resent how their Father tended to favour them. "Abominations begotten upon Human women, tainted by His Fall from grace, more demon than angel, but nephilim all the same. Morgana is one of His spawn, and like our Father, she possesses the ability to strip a being of their soul.

"It's not an easy skill, but it can be taught. Morgause is not a nephilim, and souls are beyond her. But magic? Magic she can do.

"But not when magic and soul is one and the same, as it is with you."

"What do you mean?" Merlin turned his head and shifted as if he were about to sit up. Arthur made a warning noise and glared until Merlin settled.

"He might not be my father, but He did donate my genes. Stealing someone else's magic, stealing someone else's soul -- _that_ is a skill I can teach you. I can teach you many things." Arthur painted a flourish in the curve of Merlin's elbow.

Arthur drew back to inspect his handiwork, watching as the ink formed and reformed on Merlin's skin, twisting and curling until they curled into the shapes of Arthur's intention. Sigils of protection, layered seven-fold. All of Arthur's names across Merlin's chest, writ upon his heart. Bracers of warding around Merlin's arms, each line guarding against every threat that Arthur knew to name, and a hundred others that he hadn't yet encountered, but would, one day.

A surge of possession overcame him. A feral urge to mark and claim. To taste every millimetre of Merlin's flesh, to cement their bond with his come and Merlin's blood.

But not yet. He wasn't finished.

He forced himself to take a deep breath. His exhalation was a tremulous, yearning growl. The timbre of his voice had dropped, and there was a scratch in it when he roughly ordered, "Stand up. Turn around. Put your hands on the table and lean forward."

"Arthur," Merlin said, almost in protest, but he obeyed.

Arthur ran the paintbrush over Merlin's back until it wiped clean of ink. He tipped the bowl across Merlin's shoulders and down his spine in a slow dribble, making sure that the last of it went into the crack of Merlin's arse. The ink settled onto Merlin's skin, arching outward to form crude letters of raw power on his shoulders, to form a circle within a circle on Merlin's back, to drip across his buttocks in thin lettering of possession, following the curve of his arse over his taint and cock.

Not a single drop fell to the floor.

Arthur threw the stone bowl and paintbrush across the room.

"Hey, that was --"

Arthur tore his shirt off. The sound of ripping fabric stilled the rest of Merlin's words. Merlin looked over his shoulder at Arthur, his eyes dark with lust.

"Tell me you understand what we're doing," Arthur said, kicking off his shoes and socks. "Tell me that you know what happens next."

Merlin was quiet for a moment. His eyes shut. The tension in his shoulders eased as if he forced himself to, or as if he'd come to some sort of decision. He swallowed hard. His legs spread to shoulder width, his hands and fingers splayed on the table as if bracing himself. "I know. I understand."

"I'm not going to be gentle," Arthur said, whipping his belt out of the loops. "Not this time. And not ever again. You're worth so much more. I will never let a day pass without you knowing --"

Arthur trailed off.

 _\-- how much I want you_.

Merlin nodded faintly. Tension drained from his shoulders and he bowed his head, almost in submission. "I understand," he repeated.

The words were so soft that Arthur almost believed that Merlin did know what Arthur refused to say out loud, never mind to admit to himself.

Arthur kicked his trousers and boxer briefs away. He curled his fingers around his cock and squeezed once before he took the edge off with a few strokes. He crowded between Merlin's legs and spat in his hand, trailing down with his fingers and settling at the rim. Minuscule twitches jerked through Merlin's body, making him tremble.

Without warning, without apology, Arthur thrust a finger barely wetted by spit and ink into Merlin's hole.

Merlin grunted, but said nothing. The marks rippled, turning an oily shade of gold and black. Arthur moved his finger in and out several times, feeling the tightness around it, regretting that the pain was necessary. He guided his cock to press against the rim, holding himself back long enough to wind an arm around Merlin's shoulder, to press the fleshy part between forefinger and thumb into Merlin's mouth in offering.

"Bite if you need to," Arthur murmured. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "Don't come until I allow it, darling."

Arthur didn't give Merlin any warning. He shoved his cock in with one hard thrust.

Merlin bit down, muffling a shout. His fingers grasped at the surface of the table before clenching into tight fists.

Arthur's hand throbbed where Merlin's teeth worried through his palm. He ignored the ache and pulled his cock out just enough to dribble spit on it, saliva mingling with the streaks of blood.

Breath, blood, spit and flesh.

A golden-black ripple of power flashed through all the marks on Merlin's skin. Arthur kissed Merlin's shoulder, taking a moment -- giving Merlin a moment -- before letting go of what precious little discipline he had left.

He thrust into Merlin. He fucked hard. He bit down where he kissed, lapping at the wound, tasting Merlin's magic, his soul, his blood.

The table tilted, clanging against the bolts keeping it to the floor.

Merlin reached back. He grabbed Arthur's hip. His hand slipped away, but Arthur didn't care if Merlin was trying to make him stop or to encourage him. He pulled his hand from Merlin's mouth and shoved Merlin down, chest flat on the table, and grabbed Merlin's hips to hold him steady, to protect him from the table's edge.

He pounded into him with single-minded abandon. Merlin belonged to him. Merlin was _his_.

Merlin gasped with every thrust. His fingers clawed the metal table. There was a hitch to his breath, a shudder coursing down his body, tension in his muscles that belied the promised surrender and threatened everything that Arthur feared.

But when he snaked a hand around to encourage Merlin along, he found that Merlin's cock hadn't flagged, that the pre-come had dripped down its length, that --

Merlin moaned Arthur's name when Arthur stroked his length roughly.

"Come," Arthur whispered.

It took a few more strokes, but Merlin came. Arthur caught the spurts of come, and when Merlin's cock stopped pulsing, Arthur ran his cupped hand over Merlin's chest, rubbing into the patterns and symbols.

_Gold-black_

The shimmer in the marks was stronger, now, more permanent. Arthur grabbed Merlin's shoulder and thrust harder, a part of him wanting the rough fucking to last so much longer. His fingers dug into Merlin's skin only to relax when he felt Merlin pushing back against him.

The change in motion pushed Arthur over the crest, and --

_Black, red, gold_

Something deep within Arthur roared, a claim of triumph and possession. Power surged through him, between them, into Merlin. Time _shifted_ , space _froze_ , and in that moment, everything was undone and remade.

A symbol formed within the circle on Merlin's back, appearing as all the other marks faded away. The Leviathan cross shone bright with the pitch of Arthur's power before it, too, was subsumed. Arthur closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the strange sense of having been made whole.

Merlin pulled away and turned around in Arthur's arms.

Black ink faded from his eyes. The irises blazed red like blood. And for a moment, a brief moment, they flashed gold.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"You look well-shagged," Mordred remarked. He pushed himself from his spot against the pillar, looking like a fashion model about to claim the runway, and met Merlin on the pavement.

Dark blue trousers, vest, and jacket brought out the lavender edge of his eyes, while the pale flax shirt added another dimension of contrast with his skin. He wasn't wearing a tie, the top buttons open, showing a flirtatious amount of curly chest hair. Mordred leaned in and took a deep breath, drawing away with closed eyes and a drunk little smile on his face.

"The _taste_ of it," he moaned. "What I wouldn't give to be in the room when you fuck. I wouldn't need to feed for a month. Tell me, who tops?"

Arthur, Merlin didn't say. Arthur topped, fucking like a goddamned thoroughbred thundering around the racetrack or like a malevolent tantric master fully intending to squeeze out as many orgasms from Merlin as he could before coming himself. Sometimes, Merlin wondered if Arthur's life goals weren't so much world domination, but making certain that Merlin wouldn't be able to walk for _days_.

Merlin flicked his cigarette away and blew blue smoke into Mordred's face. Mordred's nose wrinkled with distaste, and he recoiled, shaken out of his lust. "That's a fucking filthy habit. Hasn't Arthur told you that?"

"He's mentioned it," Merlin said, unwilling to admit that he'd promised to quit once he ran out of cigarette packs. He glanced over his shoulder, unable to shake the bad feeling that had followed him since leaving Arthur's flat.

Merlin had woken up in a tangle of blankets and toa lingering kiss on his forehead, murmuring a barely-lucid good-bye as Arthur pulled on his school jacket and paused in the mirror to check his hair. For whatever reason, Arthur made a point of giving Merlin his schedule. Any deviations, Arthur had said, were not cause for concern, but the text Merlin had received less than an hour prior redirecting Arthur to the Pendragon building had left a cold trickle running down his spine.

Mordred's eyes narrowed. "Something wrong?"

Merlin ran his hand through his hair, still not used to the shorter style, though he had grudgingly admitted that it suited him better, as did the clothes that had replaced his old wardrobe. He dropped his hand and searched for Gwaine or Perceval. One of the two usually drove Arthur, parking illegally on the kerb, but the familiar car was nowhere in sight. "Where is he?"

"Inside," Mordred said. "Courtyard. Uther's delivering a speech. A press release of some sort."

Merlin grabbed Mordred's arm and guided him toward the glass revolving doors. "And he needs Arthur for that?"

"Common enough, these days. He's on his way out, Arthur's on his way in. I don't know the details," Mordred said. He shrugged free of Merlin's grasp and fished his mobile out of his pocket. "You think something's wrong?"

 _No,_ Merlin started to say. They crossed the threshold and stepped into the lobby. Merlin _felt_ \--

Instinct lashed out to form a redirecting ward around him before he could properly analyze the faint, subsuming trickle of magical current flooding the area like a bad perfume. He saw the dazed look on the faces of the security guards, watched as people milled about aimlessly, as if they'd forgotten where they were going.

"Well, damn," Mordred said grimly. One couldn't charm a creature whose very nature was to charm and seduce. The foreign magic sparked against his skin. He stretched his arm out, more fascinated than alarmed by the effect.

Merlin shook him roughly. "Courtyard. Where is it?"

"You think I come here all the time? No… no clue," Mordred said, heading toward the building directory, scanning the contents. His pace increased and Merlin followed him past the elevators and through a series of corridors.

The further they went, the more Merlin felt resistance against his protection wards. The sparks were brighter and more frequent, slowing them both down. Merlin shot a glance over his shoulder at Mordred's hiss of pain as they approached the courtyard. Merlin was able to deflect the magical resistance, but Mordred was slowed to a crawl by the time they reached the top of an archway.

He grunted and was driven to his knees.

Merlin hooked a hand under Mordred's arm to help him up. "Come on, move --"

"I can't!" Lavender filed Mordred's eyes and his fingers turned into claws gouging the marble floor. His designer shoes slipped on the smooth surface as he fought for purchase against the bright white sparks flashing in increasing bursts against his skin.

Suddenly, he was torn from Merlin's grasp as if by a strong wind, crashing against the far wall. He was pinned two feet from the ground, struggling to get free, his head thrown back in a rictus of pain as the foreign magic pelted him in a gruelling barrage.

Merlin didn't hesitate. He headed for the archway. Mordred was a big boy. He was a demon. He could take a bit of pain.

The courtyard was an artificial garden in the centre of the Pendragon building, illuminated by bulbs emitting natural light and surrounded by a woodsy façade. The ground was the finest astroturf, a mechanical pond blurbed, and plastic flowers bloomed eternal. The area was filled with people, most of whom wore suits and ties, the remainder clearly members of the press.

Ever single living soul appeared to be in some sort of daze. They moved and spoke like puppets following their masters' script. The reporter asking questions with glazed eyes. A woman swaying on her feet, trying to find purchase for her high heels in the decorative patch of moss near the fountain. A few men checking their watches, sighing in boredom, muttering to themselves.

Uther Pendragon stood on the raised dais at the near end of the courtyard, reading notes from light green index cards. His hair was slicked back, silver wire-frame glasses perched on the tip of his nose, dark brown business suit over a light blue shirt and gold-stripped navy tie.

He was sweating, his hands shaking, his mouth curling into a self-deprecating smile when he stumbled over his words.

Arthur was close to the archway, his body in profile. He'd traded in his school jacket for a deep burgundy suit jacket that complemented him well, but also showed the stark tension between his shoulders. His expression was carefully masked neutrality. As his gaze skated over the crowd, Merlin caught Arthur's slight frown, narrowed eyes, and the tightness to the set of his mouth.

Merlin spotted Leon on the other side of the platform, trapped by businessmen and hanger-ons, standing stiff and immobile, held in place by the red fingernails of a buxom blonde next to him, her body angled in a shoddy attempt to hide the gun she pressed into his ribs.

Merlin started forward. He stopped short. Morgause drifted through the crowd, her chin down, her eyes wide, a sly smile pulling at her lips.

He reminded himself that he wasn't afraid of her. That whatever she had tried to do to him was nothing compared to what he could do to her. That the pain that had come with her attempt to tear his magic away was in the past and nothing but a memory. Arthur had brought him to safety, had ensured that he was rested and nursed back to health. He would fucking _crush_ her.

She hadn't seen him yet, her attention evenly split between Arthur on the dais and a pretty brunette with big blue eyes and bright ruby lips. Merlin didn't recognize the other woman, but he could sense her magic, powerful and tainted. When he _looked_ , he saw Morgause's magic as a patchwork of stolen power, while the other woman's magic licked at her shoulders with necromantic affectation -- black as the pitch of universes colliding and birthing chaos in the process.

Merlin clicked his tongue in momentary hesitation before descending the stairs to the courtyard. He had to get Arthur out of there.

Leon relaxed at Merlin's appearance, and, no longer paralyzed by the threats to Arthur, turned his attention to the blonde next to him. Morgause's smug smile faltered when she saw Merlin, and she hurried to get to the brunette, who seemed too focused on Arthur.

The audience seemed unaware of Merlin's arrival. Uther stumbled over his speech, Arthur turned around, following Uther's gaze. The blank look on his face cracked, just for a moment, but pleasure was quickly replaced by a frown of confusion. He opened his mouth to ask, only --

A glint of reflected light caught his eye. He glanced at the people lingered on the observation bridge two stories above, peering down on the spectacle --

"Do it now. _Do it now_ ," Morgause shouted.

Merlin broke into a run. He climbed the steps three at a time, scanning the crowd. He cast a quick protection ward on Arthur. He saw the gun --

The tiny flash of muzzle fire --

And time slowed. It stuttered.

A convergence point was inescapable. A place, a person, an artefact. Merlin had seen all three, before. He could recognize this rare event on sight. Whatever the situation, whatever had brought him there, there was no leaving it until the Fates had their way, plucking at the strings of destiny.

This moment in time was meant to be. Whether Merlin had accepted Arthur's offer or if it was denied, there was no decision that could be made, no action or reaction that would change the path.

There was pain -- of course, there was. The sting of a needle through his chest, piercing skin and muscle and bone. He felt the bullet enter his heart in the silence between two beats. Blood drained out of him, robbing him of strength.

He collapsed.

He landed hard on his knees. Rolled onto his side. Stared up at a ceiling painted a solid cornflower blue, at the lights of a million artificial suns burning his eyes.

When he blinked, time sped up, running too fast, making him miss the important bits. The crowd had cleared. Uther cowered in the corner. The pretty blonde with the gun was dead, her throat torn out. Leon ran toward him -- toward Arthur, who was on the ground next to Merlin, shaking him.

"Merlin. _Merlin!_ "

Arthur's eyes were wide with horror, his expression pale, his mouth open and wordless. But the hound -- the beast Merlin always saw dogging Arthur's steps -- its eyes blazed red with unbridled rage, spit and spittle slicking its fangs as it threw its head back and howled.

It _howled_.

Merlin felt it deep within his soul. It reverberated with grief and sadness, rumbling with the promise of a vengeance that would only be satisfied by a world razed to the ground.

"It didn't work. It --" Arthur's breath hitched. His voice broke. "Merlin. I'll get you to the hospital --"

"Go," Merlin gasped. Arthur held on to him like a drowning man clutching a glass with only a few drops of water in it, dying of thirst while drowning at the same time. Merlin looked past him at Leon, who met his eyes and nodded in understanding.

Leon wrapped his arm around Arthur and dragged him away. Every metre gained in their retreat to the side exit of the courtyard was hard-won, because Arthur fought Leon at every step. Merlin watched until they were gone, his vision blurred, but he was certain, without a single doubt, that those were tears in Arthur's eyes.

A wave of serenity filled Merlin where there had been nothing but pain. Shuffling sounds and movement around him forced him to focus on the pair of high heels that walked into his line of sight, blocking his view of Arthur's safe retreat.

"You did well, Nimueh. Go help Morgana," Morgause said. "I'll finish this one."

"Of course," the other woman said. She hadn't gone a few steps before Merlin recognized the name. Rumoured to be the most powerful sorcerer to walk the earth, Merlin had often been compared to Nimueh before he… _before_. They'd never crossed paths, but Merlin had the sense that Nimueh's reputation wasn't deserved. Demonic magic? The source of her magic originating in the realm of the dead? No wonder the bullet had hurt so much, but it was a spell that he could undo.

Instinct told him that Arthur's claim on him would do the rest.

Merlin laughed softly, coughing halfway through, ending on a wheeze.

"Why is he laughing?" Nimueh asked.

"He's not right in the head," Morgause snapped. "Don't loiter. Follow the plan. You need to keep the nephilim distracted while Morgana deals with the boy."  
Nimueh retreated, the _click-click_ of her heels a death march across the stone. Morgause kicked Merlin in the ribs. He grunted and looked up, the lights casting a halo of malice around her wavy blonde hair, and he smirked at her as he grasped for the threads of Nimueh's spell, bringing them together.

"Clever," Morgause said, kneeling next to Merlin. "Binding your magic to your soul. Who taught you that trick? I'll kill them, make sure no one else learns it. Their magic is _mine_. Mine, do you understand?"

Merlin untied a knot of black ichor where it was wound around his heart. He reeled in the ribbons of _mortis_ poison coursing through his veins. The curses carved into the bullet's copperhead were smoothed down with little effort, the metal wanting to return to its intact form.

"It doesn't matter. I know what to do to undo it," Morgause said, quickly surrounding Merlin with a circle of salt. The circle was jerky and uneven, as if done by a new initiate too excited to start their first ritual, but perfection wasn't necessary as long as the circle closed and _held_. "You won't stop me this time. I'll have your magic. All of it. It's mine."

"No," Merlin said weakly, distractedly, focused on two things and two things alone -- breaking the spell and getting to Arthur as quickly as he could.

He pulled the last elements he needed together. Morgause chanted, the words lost to the distant background as Merlin slammed all of his remaining strength into breaking the spell.

For a moment, his heart stopped.

In the lull, the spell shattered like fine crystal under a sledgehammer blow, fine dust and sharp shards flittering away. The necromantic magic evaporated as if quenched by the heat of a thousand suns, and Merlin --

Merlin's body arched from the unexpected surge of power. An ethereal Leviathan cross bled before crashing into him.

 _Through_ him.

  

 

 

 

Like a key fitting in the bolthole, moulding into the million pins of an unfathomable tumbler, twisting to lock what could not be locked, and completing a rite that had begun days ago. Merlin gasped, taking his first breath as if he were reborn, and the first sound he made when he opened his eyes was a low growl.

"Run," he warned. Morgause ignored him and continued to chant.

His magic swelled as if by the pull of a powerful tide, twining itself around the cross and pulling it deeper still. His wounds healed in the reverse order that they had been made. The bullet pushed out of his heart. His heart knit together and the sluggish beat was restored by a tremendous pound. Shattered bone reformed from scavenged bits and pieces. Torn muscle knit together and broken skin healed over as if it had never been damaged.

Merlin groaned. He tried to move. The salt circle held him immobile. It was the force of an errant thought to claim the power of the circle for himself, to blow it away to encircle Morgause just as she completed the rite.

The circle turned the spell onto Morgause. She screamed as her magic was scavenged and returned to her, only to be torn away again. It was a self-sustaining loop filled with terror and pain that would continue until Morgause passed out or died -- whichever came first.

Merlin didn't care.

He rolled onto his side. He laid on the stone floor of the raised dais with a quiet sigh, resting for a few moments to recoup his strength.

Merlin closed his eyes, only to be left breathless by the sense of terrible danger. He scrambled to his feet, tottered dangerously before he found his balance, and ran toward the side exit.

"Help me!" Morgause shouted.

Merlin caught himself in the doorway. He watched the magic tear out of Morgause in glittering streams and found himself at a complete loss for mercy.

He'd feared that Arthur would change him. That Arthur's nature would twist and alter Merlin's core. In that moment, Merlin understood that Arthur had saved him. That this cold hate had always belonged to him.

"Go to Hell," he said. He turned and followed the instinct that would lead him to Arthur.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I'm going to kill him," Arthur snarled. He grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket and snapped them roughly, straightening it. "We're going to hunt Uther down like the bloody _weasel_ he is, and we'll string him up by his entrails --"

"Let's worry about that later, yeah?" Leon said, glancing over his shoulder.

Arthur noticed the gun in Leon's hands. It wasn't his usual -- a slim Taurus .22 instead of the heavier black-plate Sig Sauer. He wondered where Leon had gotten it from and asked, "Sophia?"

"Dead," Leon said. He guided Arthur down the corridor and into a different hallway. "Keep your voice down. We don't know what else they've planned."

Arthur barely registered Leon's words of caution, but he fell silent anyway. It was one thing for Arthur to usurp whatever control Uther Pendragon had had over his business holdings and contacts. It was something else entirely for Uther Pendragon to collude with Arthur's enemies in clear betrayal of his previous loyalties, all in a feeble attempt to regain the upper hand.

He'd been played, and that knowledge didn't sit well with him. His informants had either been in the dark as well, or they'd been in on it, too. Arthur was going to have to tear down his network and rebuild, making certain that only the trustworthy and dedicated were in charge.

What a fucking laugh the day had been. Pulling Arthur out of his classes for an important press conference was nothing new. Any suspicion had been dampened by the promise that Uther would make a public announcement of having signing the company over to Arthur. Arthur had spent the car ride reviewing the speech he'd written weeks prior to reassure the investors that there would be no change in the members of the board until he himself was ready to take command.

He'd allowed Sophia to manhandle him into the spare dressing room, changed out of his school uniform so that he wouldn't appear so _young_ , and went to stand on the platform near Uther, waiting patiently for the announcement and his cue.

Arthur clenched his jaw. He'd let his guard down. It wasn't until halfway through Uther's increasingly fumbling speech that Arthur clued in that something was wrong. Uther never needed index cards. The crowd gathered was made up more of glazed-eyed Pendragon followers than actual media. The red recording light on top of the video cameras never came on. Morgause must have been wearing a powerful illusion, because Arthur hadn't noticed her until --

_Gunshot_

Leon fired the .22 behind them until he emptied the magazine, urging Arthur along. Arthur didn't know what was after them, but the lifeless lump curled around the distant corner was sign enough that _something_ was.

Arthur allowed Leon to take him through corridors that he knew like the back of his hand. He pushed away the memory of Merlin appearing in front of him, of collapsing at the bullet that had been meant for Arthur. He had to keep going.

He hadn't fucked up the ritual. He was certain of it. Merlin was fine. He could feel it in his bones. Grief was washed away by the rising rage that someone would _dare_ harm what was his.

Leon tossed the empty .22 and took his Sig Sauer out of the shoulder holster beneath his jacket. He didn't fire, but he moved with more alertness. It wasn't until Leon grabbed Arthur's arm to slow him down that Arthur noticed the change in their surroundings.

The corridors led to the maintenance tunnels and to one of the multitude of exit strategies that Leon had put together for exactly this kind of event. It was an unfortunate design in that there were no additional doorways beyond the reinforced fire door at the far end. The exit leading straight to the maintenance area and additional exit venues was also out, because the area seemed to be… occupied.

The walls creaked and cracked churlishly. Claws dragged across the wallpaper from the inside out. Some sort of large outline pushed out from the plasterboards, sprinkling white dust on stone tiles.

Fifteen metres to the maintenance exit. Nearly forty to the far end and to leave the building. Far too many deepening shadows in an isolated area, the overhead lights dimming and darkening with every passing moment.

The emergency exit _melted_. The metal frame sagged, the red lights dripped, the handle fell free from one side, clanging against the frame. It landed on the ground with a muted thump as the door slipped from its hinges, fluttering down like the final curtain call on the stage.

The maintenance door pounded a few times from the inside, large spikes pushing out at awkward angles with railroad spikes, nailing the door shut even as a pentagram burned its way across the door, the points meeting at each spike.

"Theatrics," Arthur growled.

"Retreat," Leon said without hesitation, turning on his heel.

Arthur dragged him to a stop. The long corridor that had led them to this point was lined with glass cabinets on one side, vaulted windows just out of reach above them on the other.

Morgana, flanked by _anu-na-ne-ke_ , mirrored him on the other end, blocking any escape.

She raised her eyebrows in greeting. Her mouth pulled into a haughty smirk as she raised her chin. "Hello, little brother."

Black trousers. White shirt. Long overcoat with murderous, purple tones. A rake of gemstones set in silver around her throat, a touch of pastel colours on pale skin.

And, behind her, the ghostly shade of moulting angel wings, spread wide and menacing, casting gloom and doom over the _anu-na-ne-ke_ , who had shed their illusions and stood proud in their gruesome glory. A pyramid head without eyes. The axe-head of a halberd embedded in the exposed bone-chest of another. Patchwork skin like the scales of a crocodile, with a muzzle to match. A hunchback that was all bones and clawed hands.

"Fancy meeting you here," Arthur said, taking a lazy step forward. He gestured. "Is this supposed to be intimidating?"

The smug smirk stretched wider, but the amusement didn't rise to Morgana's eyes. She gestured sharply. "Tend to your cousin, gentlemen. We gave our word he wouldn't be harmed overmuch, so do take care."

The hunchback and the axe-head advanced. Jerky movements on one side were offset by the smooth glide from the other _anu-na-ne-ke_. Sharp claws clacked together like those of a crab, while the axe was wrenched out of the other nephilim's chest with a squelshing sound. Blood dripped on the ground; bits of bone clattered on the floor.

Leon stepped in front of Arthur, pushing him back. He fired his weapon and one of the bullets struck the hunchback in the chest, though he continued his approach unflinchingly. Leon stopped firing when the bullets ricocheted off a translucent shield and traded his weapon for a knife with a taenitic blade. He shifted his stance as if readying for combat.

The _anu-na-ne-ke_ spread their advance, intending on flanking him. Arthur clasped his hand in front of him, a mask of boredom filtering over unbridled rage. He'd seen Leon in training. Leon had protected him against greater threats than nephilim from old, defunct bloodlines. As entertaining as it would be to watch one nephilim take care of a handful of rickety _anu-na-ne-ke_ , Arthur was more interested in getting on with the pressing business of returning to the courtyard for Merlin.

Returning to the courtyard for Merlin.

An irritating click-click- _click_ ing sound echoed in the corridor, growing louder and louder as a shadow arrived from behind Morgana. A statuesque brunette in an elegant business suit and too-red high heels stepped into the flickering light, smiling sweetly at Arthur.

 _Nimueh_ , Arthur recognized. She had been on his list of sorcerers to approach as allies, her name struck out when Arthur realized how megalomaniac she could be. She wanted to be the Queen on the throne, the mistress of everything she saw, and he wondered if Morgana knew that, if she knew how much of a challenge Nimueh would be when Morgana attempted that same claim.

"There's only the one?" Nimueh asked, sounding disappointed.

"He's yours," Morgana said, never taking her eyes from Arthur.

"I suppose it'll have to do," Nimueh said. She raised her arm before Arthur could react. A spiral circle washed through the air, extending into a three-dimensional skeletal hand reaching through a cloud of squiggly necromantic symbols, and --  
_  
_ "Leon," Arthur warned, but it came too late.

The transparent hand curled into a fist, bowing at an imaginary wrist, and abruptly lashed out, striking through the _anu-na-ne-ke_ to swat Leon against the cabinets. Glass shattered, wood splintered, an assortment of awards and photographs crashed to the ground.

The skeleton hand drew back, pulling Leon's angelic essence with it. Leon gasped for air, dropping his knife after a few moments to yank at the collar of his shirt. Arthur moved to help him, only to be chased off by the _anu-na-ne-ke_. They collected Leon and dragged him away, past Morgana, and to Nimueh.

Arthur exhaled slowly through flared nostrils. His fists clenched, his knuckles cracked.

Nimueh crouched down to inspect Leon, who struggled for breath. Even in the dim light and at this distance, Arthur could tell that Leon was pale, weakened by whatever Nimueh had done. She took out a small container where it was tucked between her breasts, unscrewing it carefully. A tap of a finger, a drawn symbol in ash on Leon's brow, and Leon gulped air, finally able to breathe again.

His colour was remained sickly, and despite the _anu-na-ne-ke_ 's loose grasp on his arms, Leon seemed… paralyzed. Dazed.

Nimueh turned to Arthur, pursing pouty lips at him. "Do forgive me. You have an eclectic collection that causes great envy. I've wanted one of my own for so long."

Arthur tilted his head to the side, unimpressed, and asked, "Did you steal that trick from the Executioner?"

Something nasty flickered in Nimueh's expression. The pretty face was an illusion over a visage twisted by necromantic magic. Her eyes were hollow, her cheeks sunken, skin stretched over a skull worked over multiple times by trépanage, lips drawn back over too-long teeth blackened by decay. She was vile.

Whatever retort Nimueh was about to make withered under Arthur's unwavering gaze. She glanced uncertainly at Morgana, who gestured curtly. Without a word, Nimueh turned on her heel and walked away, a sashay forced into her stride, as if to prove that Arthur hadn't gotten under her skin.

The two _anu-na-ne-ke_ followed her, dragging Leon behind them.

No sooner had they disappeared that two more appeared, a wave of grey smoke rising around them as they stepped forward. One was cloaked, drawing its skeletal hand away from the other _anu-na-ne-ke_ , who was easily the size of a brick house and looked like one, its face and body bulbous and stony, ground down to a flat plane.

Their arrival was followed by a distant howl. A slow breeze picked up, pulling at Arthur's clothes and hair, warm and sulphurous and promising Hell and damnation. Morgana's long overcoat flapped around her heels, loose curls flowing behind her as the wind picked up. Her smirk became a gleeful smile of premature triumph, and her eyes began to glow.

Arthur's hackles raised. He snarled.

One by one, the remaining lights in the corridor burst. The bulbs popped, fizzling and crackling, sputtering sparks before darkness replaced them. The only light came from the arched windows, but even that dimmed as the sun was swept behind dark clouds.

The walls creaked, pulsing with a monstrous heartbeat. Clawed hands pushed at the plaster, manipulating them like plastic. A too-human face stretched in the wall, eyes and mouth wide open. Hands and arms moulded within, straining against the earthly confines.

Arthur could feel them. Roiling just beneath, in the _other_. A hair's breadth away from breaching through the veil keeping them in their realm, away from a world long forbidden to angels and demons. A writhing mass of soulless, ready to break through and claim what could never be theirs.

Because it was _his_.

A growl rumbled in his chest.

"Do you like them?" Morgana taunted. "Father promised them to me. An army of my own. And all I have to do is --"

"Kill me?" Arthur asked. An unnatural calm overcame him as he relaxed the bonds he'd placed on himself. Power surged, rising like a fanned inferno, and the flames danced in the edges of his vision, clouding his sight with a ghastly shade of red.

Morgana's smile faltered, and it was a strange sight to behold. Proud Morgana, bleeding at the edges with envy for a legacy that wasn't hers. She'd dogged Arthur's heels for years, ever since discovering that he stood in her path for dominion over the earth, always testing him, always pushing him, trying to find weakness.

"And then what? You'll hold the door open for Him to come through? So that He can take the throne you so dearly covet?"

Arthur took a slow step forward. The roar bubbled in his throat barely held back.

" _The throne that is mine_?"

The _anu-na-ne-ke_ cowered, skittering backward. Morgana jerked, but she held her ground.

Arthur forced a reassuring smile on his lips. He cracked his neck, shrugging off the prickliest edges of his anger, shrugging his shoulders.

"It's all right, Morgana," Arthur said, keeping his tone neutral. "I understand. You've been alone all this time. An absent mother drugged to the gills in an asylum because no one will believe that she shagged the devil. A perverted stepfather who drowned his sorrows over his wife's absence and distracted himself by burying his dick in your prepubescent cunt."

Morgana hissed.

"And that's not to mention the long shadow of a Father who couldn't give a _fuck_ about your existential crisis. He was too busy waging war against Heaven. Turning mortals to His cause. Obsessing about _me_."

Arthur unbuttoned his jacket. He put his hands in his trouser pockets.

"It stuck in your craw, didn't it? How much favour He showed me, and I couldn't have cared less? That I received all that you were denied, and turned Him away?" Arthur asked, raising a brow.

"You --"

Arthur's snarl cut her off. " _You_. He's been showering you with praise, hasn't He? He's been letting you lick His boots. But He's using you, did you know that? All because He found a way to use me to tear a door into this plane so that He can rule on earth. But the minute He steps through, you'll be sending Him right back, won't you?"

A rumble of displeasure shook the ground. The walls rippled in a cacophony of demonic protest. The remaining glass cabinets wavered, tottering dangerously before three of them fell, one after the other.

Morgana's eyes were wide as she stared down and around her. The _anu-na-ne-ke_ scattered. The pyramid-headed nephilim stumbled and fell too close to the walls, where he was grabbed by a demonic arm stretching through the plaster. Claws cut through the _anu-na-ne-ke_ 's thick, roped neck.

The blood sacrifice caused the walls to crack. A single blood-stained scratch spread like wildfire.

"You both crave the same thing, and somehow overlook one very important fact," Arthur said.

He took his hands out of his pockets, spreading his arms wide.

"I am the prophesied son of the Morningstar," Arthur said, his voice low and seductive, as if imparting a great secret.

He approached Morgana with the low, lazy slide of a predator, full of feline grace, his eyes half-hooded in thoughtful deliberation of how best to play with its food.

"I am the Wicked Man," Arthur said, raising his chin and widening his eyes in a hint of mockery at the title that he had been given in prophecy. His shoulders squared. "I am the Profane. The Despoiler. The Destroyer."

Morgana backed away. Her shadow-wings fell, faltering, and dragged on the floor.

"I am the King of Kings."

In the distance, several doors slammed shut with an otherworldly clang. Latches turned, locks twisted, and barricades fell with resounding thuds.

The cracks in the wall shone with a bright, burning light. Echoing screeches of pain and terror faded. The demons clawed desperately at walls that were no longer yielding, and after a few heartbeats, the corridor was silent.

Morgana's mouth was open, her eyes wide. Slow realization crept onto her features, and Arthur revelled in how badly she had misjudged him.

How little they'd thought of him.

It was their undoing. All of them. The Witchfinder. Uther Pendragon. Morgause Gorlois. Nimueh. Morgana LeFay. _Lucifer_.

The light changed. The _world_ changed. The sky darkened, swirling in angry masses, taking on a reddish hue beneath the heavy, black clouds.

"I am the Alpha. I am the Omega. I am the beginning and the end."

Arthur took a slow breath. His power surged out of him like a beast pouncing on his prey, and he roared, " _You can't take what's mine._ "

The ground shook, surging upward, cracking the stone floor. The building swayed, the tempered glass windows shattered, and a low, low _boom_ of distant thunder spoke of unbridled wrath.

Morgana ran.

Arthur followed her, his stride unhurried. He had the scent of her essence, now. He would hunt her relentlessly, like a wolf after its next meal. He would drive her to exhaustion and force her to show submission before he made her _pay_ for everything that she had done, that she had tried to do.

Morgana turned the far corner. Arthur lost sight of her, but it didn't matter. He headed left, still on her trail, and --

A solid shape crashed into him.

Arthur caught it by reflex, his fingers curled into claws, ready to tear this object apart for getting in his way. He bared his teeth, ready to bite and rend --

"Arthur. Arthur! _Thank fuck_. You're all right --"

The messy snarl of tangled rage uncoiled, easing, lessening. Arthur's shoulders relaxed, tension ebbing out of him as if someone were reeling it in, no longer clouding his mind. Red bled out of his eyes; red bled out of the sky.

He looked into Merlin's concerned gaze, and forgot all about Morgana.

"You're alive. _You're alive!_ "

Arthur threw his arms around Merlin, holding him tightly, his breath catching in his chest. He closed his eyes, willing away the memory of Merlin falling to the ground, his chest bleeding from a grievous wound.

"You're alive," he whispered. His cheeks were wet, and it took him a moment to realize that he was crying.

"Yeah," Merlin said, his tone bemused, but Arthur didn't miss how Merlin held him just as tightly. "Yeah, I am."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A torn plastic bag from the corner shop one block over blew across the damp pavement, slinking and flitting like the bait on a fisherman's hook. The nearly-translucent material caught and reflected the streetlight before darting into the shadows.

The sky broke open, pouring pelting rain onto London, hammering the plastic bag and everyone unlucky enough to be out and about on this sorry night. Merlin raised the collar of his leather trench coat, hunching his shoulders, and took a soggy drag of his cigarette. He flicked it away, holding his breath to savour the last lungful of smoke as long as he could. It was his last one.

He exhaled, squinting to see through the steady rain, and considered turning back. The loft was about thirty blocks in the other direction, but it was a lovely night for a cab ride. The renovations were nearly done. Arthur would move in, soon, though why he hadn't insisted on dragging Merlin to a posher part of town, Merlin would never know. It might have something to do with the decades of protection layering the loft and naturally spreading throughout the building, giving Arthur the peace of mind he couldn't have outside those walls.

A car engine sputtered in the distance before catching. A few lorries rumbled past and nearly showered Merlin with a wave of rainwater puddling at the grate. He paused at the kerb, waiting for the light to change.

The footsteps behind him stopped when he did.

Merlin jaywalked, ignoring the honking horns of passing cars, and hurried to the other side, slipping into an alleyway. He leaned against the wall, waiting to see if someone would pass by, but when five minutes passed without so much as a _ping_ on his magical radar, Merlin emerged at the mouth, took a long look around, and continued on.

His phone buzzed. He sheltered it from the rain to glance at the incoming text.

_Have you seen Arthur?_

Merlin released a breath of frustration. He pushed the Call button and brought the mobile to his ear. "He's about my height, blond hair, blue eyes, really fit."

"That's not what I meant, you useless pillock," Mordred said. "He's not at the penthouse or at your flat, he's not answering his phone, and he's walked out of a party with some very shaggable blokes that I'm really annoyed at having left behind. Do you know how much sexual energy teenagers give off?"

"Yes," Merlin bit out. He imagined that Arthur would still fuck like a rock star even if he weren't the antichrist and imbued with unimaginable stamina. If not for his magic's propensity for healing him of every scrape and bruise, Merlin wouldn't be walking right now. He'd be in bed, too exhausted to even beg for mercy, deliriously waving a hand at Arthur as he left with Percival and Mordred to go to his mate's house for some sort of birthday bash.

There was a long pause on the line before Mordred said, "You're not freaking out."

"No," Merlin said, shaking his head. He wiped the rivulet of water dripping down his brow. "I'm pretty sure I know where he is. Did you check with Percy?"

Merlin could almost hear Mordred roll his eyes. "'Course I did. He crashed the party, terrorized the brats, stole their beer, and is currently fending off one very horny boy who's trying to climb him like a tree. Lucky for them both, Gwaine's out driving around, trying to find him."

"Hold on," Merlin said, coming to a stop in front of an understated red brick building. The tiny front yard was framed in wrought iron wards cleverly disguised as a fence, and the grass was dry, dead and brown despite the rain and the lush lawn next door. A mail slot was positioned near the gate, overstuffed with junk mail and flyers. The stone walk was lined in quartzite, the cement step had been painted black, and the door was rowanwood in dark stain.

He thumbed past the phone conversation on his mobile and sent a text. _Are you following me?_

While Merlin waited for a response, he dug through his pockets. A bent tab from a can of beer, a polished penny, a handful of mung beans soaked in water from a peat bog containing the body of a recently-sacrificed, a receipt from Tesco's for rubbing alcohol and liniment --

He came up for air with a crumpled napkin that had seen better days. He protected it with his hand before the rain completely disintegrated it. The scribble was barely legible, but the numbers were clear, and he was at the right address.

His mobile buzzed with a text.

_Damn it._

Merlin sighed softly. He texted, _If you're going to be here, you may as well come in with me._

Merlin didn't wait for a response. He thumbed past the messenging screen and went back to his phone.

"He's fine," Merlin said, wishing he didn't sound as cross as he did. He supposed it was his own fault for wanting to surprise Arthur with some good news, for a change. Sex was an excellent distraction, most of the time, but Arthur had been preoccupied with Leon's kidnapping ever since Morgana's attempted coup. "I have him."

Mordred released a held breath. Relief turned into exasperation. "I fucking hate this job." He hung up without another word.

Merlin pocketed his mobile and squinted up at the building. Scrying for Leon had failed. His associates didn't have a whole lot of information. Gilli, a psychic with a terrible temper and a hobby finding lost things, suggested he stop looking for what was supposed to be there, and search for what but _wasn't_ , instead. That terrible advice wasted days of footwork, reaching out to old contacts while making new ones, and ended with Freya, who had stumbled on Nimueh's trail while visiting a mate who lived a few blocks north of Camden.

Somehow, Nimueh hadn't noticed the large cat leaping from rooftop to rooftop.

"How did I give myself away?" Arthur asked, stopping to stand next to Merlin, their elbows brushing. He looked like a drowned rat with his hair plastered to his skull and his wet clothes clinging to his body, but his eyes were bright and there was a predatory quirk to his mouth. Clearly, he was eager to get his hands dirty.

Merlin considered not telling Arthur. Arthur picked up things too quickly, and there were times when Merlin needed any advantage that he could get. Keeping Arthur safe from other people outweighed his own personal desires, and he admitted, "You walk when I do. Stop when I do. After a while it's pretty obvious. Also, your hair stands out. Wear a hat."

He ruffled Arthur's hair for emphasis. Arthur ducked his head away with a low warning growl that was more directed at his own mistake than toward Merlin. He gestured. "Why are we here?"

Merlin glanced up and down the street. He gave the building a more thorough _look_ , studying the magical energies tangled up in the construction. The wards were poorly done, almost thrown up as an afterthought. Nimueh was relying on the iron wards to keep her presence masked, taking advantage of the natural properties of iron to dissipate necromantic magic from detection.

Neither the building nor the fencing could completely erase a nephilim's celestial essence from a scrying bowl, but there were enough half-angels in the city to make it difficult to pinpoint which of them belonged to Leon. Even with Lancelot's helpful contribution of a dried glob of semen on Leon's shirt, Leon's presence didn't so much as draw the crystal Merlin had hung over a map.

Usually, that meant someone was dead. Arthur was convinced Leon was alive.

"Why do you think?"

Arthur bared his teeth.

"If we're going to do this, you have to do whatever I say --" Merlin stopped short when Arthur strode forward, pushing open the iron gate without so much as a backward glance.

Merlin half-flinched in anticipation of triggered wards or some sort of immediate retaliation. When none came, he spared a moment to pinch the bridge of his nose to stave off an oncoming headache, and followed Arthur up the stone walk to the house. He arrived in time to stop Arthur from reaching for the door handle.

"Arthur. You have to be careful. Nimueh is --"

"Nimueh is an overconfident old witch with delusions of grandeur, an undeserved reputation, and a penchant for copying other people's work and doing a shite job of it," Arthur snapped. Merlin could see the hazy shape of a beast in Arthur's aura. It reminded him of a big dog lumbering to its feet, shaking its fur before lazily lumbering forward, chomping its maw as if it were anticipating its next meal.

Merlin's jaw snapped. He sighed. "Well. Yes. You're not wrong. But she's also a powerful sorcerer who can whip out a _mortis_ curse without thinking about it. In case you've forgotten, they're a little unpleasant. We want to avoid them."

" _Mer_ lin," Arthur said, impatient. "That woman has Leon. My _best friend_. Do you really think I'm concerned about a bloody curse?"  
  
He tilted his head significantly at the door.

Merlin stared heavenward. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he forced the rowanwood door open.

A barricade splintered. Deadbolts tore out of the frame. Wards woven within the door and doorway were torn out, and, triggered by the motion, erupted in a deadly blaze of white-blue electrical flares. Merlin stared at the light show until it died down, and said, "I'm going in first."

"If you must," Arthur conceded, his tone betraying a small measure of concern, no doubt wondering what would have happened if he'd touched the doorknob.

The house was immaculate -- and empty. A long cable-knot runner stretched the length of the hallway from the broken door to the end of the house. A quaint living room, complete with crocheted doilies on the furniture, was on one side. A bathroom that hadn't been updated since the 1950s crowded another room that wasn't any larger than Merlin's herb larder at the flat. The dining room was ostentatious, filled with an oversized cabinet and a table that must have been constructed within the large space. The kitchen was narrow and cramped, with a single plate in the drip-tray, an upturned mug with spilled tea on the counter, and a still-steaming kettle on the stove.

Merlin studied the stairs leading both up to the second floor and down to the subbasement level. Fresh magical energies led down, and a quick, fleeting _pulse_ to search out any other sign of life confirmed that there was no one above them.

"Downstairs it is," Arthur said, shoving past Merlin impatiently, descending two steps at a time, making enough noise to drown out a stampeding herd of elephants.

Merlin hurried after him. "You could at least try to be quiet. Now she knows we're coming."

Arthur paused halfway down and shot an unimpressed look over his shoulder. "I'm fairly certain the element of surprise was removed when you blew the front door down."

"Erm," Merlin said. He nodded grudgingly. "Fair point. Also, you're frustrating. Let _me_ go first. This is what I do for a living --"

"No," Arthur said, his tone dipping into the dangerous rumble that brokered no argument. "She already had a chance at you once. There won't be a second time."

"But --"

Arthur's eyes were dark when he turned to face Merlin. His aura was black, pulsing with a crimson undertone, and the ghostly beast that dogged Arthur's every step bowed its head, its ears flat on its skull, fangs bared in a low, menacing snarl.

Merlin held his hands up. Arthur's rage wasn't directed at him, and Merlin hoped it never would be. Merlin suspected it was in his best interest never to stand in Arthur's way. "Okay."

Arthur's mouth quirked in a slight, pleased smile, and Merlin swore he heard a happy purr. But Arthur had turned again and was continuing on his way, storming down the few remaining steps.

Another door blocked their way. Like the front door, it was made out of rowanwood, but unlike it, the door hadn't been treated. The wood was raw, carved out of three separate pieces and bound together, each slice of the tree trunk gouged with the stain of wards burned into its flesh like brands. Merlin could sense the cloying power of rotting flesh and damp earth in the barbed wire pounded around the edges.

"It's a necromancer's tomb," Merlin said. "Probably hers. It's meant to siphon whatever she can. Magic. Life."

Arthur tilted his head to the side, indicating that he had heard, but otherwise didn't acknowledge what Merlin said. He placed flat palms on the door and leaned forward; a ripple of colour, red and wet, flared through the sigils burned into the wood.

A wave of heat washed through Merlin, leaving him with an echoing sense of Arthur's power. Flames burst out of nothingness, scorching, scalding, marring the wards on the door, and Arthur shoved it open as if there had been no resistance at all.

A high-pitched, demonic shriek accompanied a flare of magic. Arthur batted the air as if shooing away a pesky fly, and the curse _shattered_. Arthur ran his hand through his hair, making himself presentable, and walked in.

Merlin shivered unconsciously, well and fully aware that Arthur's power was alien to his own, and that the question of whether he could successfully defend himself against Arthur was one he was not particularly inclined to find out.

He followed Arthur through the haze curtaining the entrance.

Leon hung from chains on the far wall, his arms stretched out, his body slumped away from the wall. The ephemeral essence of nephilim wings was nailed to the wall by silvery stakes, his bare chest was covered in claw marks that were anywhere from days to hours old, and his head had been shorn, letters of binding scarring the flesh of his skull.

Nimueh stood next to the barely-conscious nephilim, a battered grimoire clutched to her chest, a rusty knife clutched by white-knuckled fingers at Leon's throat. Terror shone in her wide eyes. Her body trembled, her brow furrowed, her mouth parted as if attempting a spell, but unable to give voice to her words.

"That's not the welcome I was expecting, but it'll do," Arthur sniffed.

Leon's eyes blinked slowly, then more rapidly, as if he were coming to himself again. He pulled away from Nimueh, only to receive a shallow cut across his throat for his trouble.

Arthur's eyes narrowed.

Self-preservation stopped Merlin from taking a step away. The only reason he stayed behind Arthur at his right hand was the warning trickle fluttering over his skin and the way his magic churned in response. He didn't want Arthur's attention right now.

"Oh, no. Nimueh. No."

The grating, paternal disapproval in Arthur's words became velvety seduction that sent a shiver of familiarity down Merlin's spine. He bowed his head even though what he really wanted to do was to kneel before Arthur. The low grade arousal settling in his groin was only further evidence of how far he'd fallen since succumbing to -- _accepting_ \-- Arthur.

"Put the knife down, Nimueh." Arthur took a slow step forward. "Move away from Leon."

Nimueh cowered, refusing to meet Arthur's gaze. Her hand trembled, but she obeyed, stretching out her arm, unwinding her fingers from around the homemade hilt and dropping the knife to the ground.

It clattered on cold cement dusty with chalk lines and stained with old blood.

Arthur raised his hand and gestured over his shoulder with two fingers. "Merlin. Take Leon upstairs. Call Gwaine."

Merlin hesitated. The sliver of Arthur's side-eye had him hastily crossing the basement. Nimueh skittered away as he approached, though her attention remained fixed firmly on Arthur. Merlin didn't trust her and didn't turn his back on her. He helped Leon to his feet, taking most of his weight, and cracked the iron shackles with his magic, cleaving the bindings that Nimueh had scratched on the surface.

The necromancer's tomb was as quiet as a regulation mausoleum as he shifted Leon in his arm and guided him away. Merlin paused before walking past Leon, but Leon pressed forward, dragging Merlin along. Merlin stopped again at the entranceway, reluctant to leave Arthur alone with Nimueh. He started to turn around when he felt Leon's fingers digging into his shoulder, squeezing with supernatural strength.

"Go," Leon urged weakly.

Merlin reluctantly crossed the threshold of the necromancer's tomb and grunted as he helped Leon up the steps.

The heavy rowanwood door slammed shut behind them.

Merlin startled, staring behind him in a mixture of two conflicting desires -- to drop Leon and to go to Arthur, or to quail at the surge of power his own magic was desperate to twine around and to run.

"You don't want to see what he does," Leon whispered. He reached for the handrail and pulled himself -- and Merlin -- up a step.

They were nearly up the stairs when the world _shifted_. The power that came with it was so great that Merlin stumbled drunkenly from the rush of power, and --

"I don't think it would matter if I did," Merlin admitted, breathing heavily. He ignored Leon's amused snort.

Merlin fished his mobile out of his pocket as soon as they hit the landing, punching Gwaine's number. Gwaine answered on the first ring, his voice muffled by distance and the rumbling of tyres on pavement.

"You're calling for pick-up, aren't you?" Gwaine asked.

"Yeah," Merlin said. "I've got Leon. He's in a state."

"I'm fine," Leon grunted, moving away from Merlin to lean against a table in the hallway. "Give me a few days."

"I'm nearly there. Pulled your phone's GPS as soon as Mordred gave me Arthur's whereabouts," Gwaine said.

Merlin flinched. Instinct told him to crush his phone under his foot. He wasn't accustomed to being on good terms with nephilim. "There used to be a time when I hunted your kind."

"The good old days," Gwaine said mockingly. "And then you went and shagged our little Prince."

Gwaine hung up before Merlin could answer. Leon, who didn't hear Gwaine's commentary, said, "And now you hunt his enemies. There's not much of a difference."

Merlin stared at Leon. He didn't want to think about a past that had hunted him for a decade. Of all those he had loved and lost and had never had at all. Of losing himself to grief and to a dragon's schemes. Somewhere within himself he found his honour again, and right or wrong… He'd been given a choice.

"There was no point in it before. Senseless murder. I was a pawn."

"And now?"

A black sedan pulled up with a wet screech, parking at the kerb in front of the house. Merlin watched Gwaine rush out of the car, and crash through the open iron gate in his hurry to get to the house. He shook the water from his hair and hurriedly shrugged out of his jacket to give to Leon. "You all right, mate?"

"Yeah," Leon said, but he didn't stop staring expectantly at Merlin.

Merlin nodded. The words felt right even before he said them. "Now I have a reason."

Leon's small smile at Merlin's answer faded as his gaze focused elsewhere.

Merlin turned.

Arthur stood at the top of the stairs, his head tilted, his eyes soft. His attention was fixed on Merlin, as if he'd heard what Merlin had said.

Merlin barely noticed.

Arthur's coat was splattered in blood. His hands dripped puddles to the floor. Splatters stained his forehead and hair. His mouth was smeared with it. He was calm, nearly serene, all traces of his rage gone, his beast sated.

For now.

"Come on. Let's get you to the car," Gwaine said, sounding satisfied. Merlin wasn't sure why. There was a shuffling sound behind him, but he could only focus on…

On how beautiful Arthur was like this. Wild and untamed, unrestrained, without guise or guile.

Merlin swallowed. How fucking far had he fallen if _this_ turned him on? Or was it just Arthur in general?

Arthur raised a knowing brow. He reached into his trouser pocket and flicked out a handkerchief as he approached Merlin. He wiped the corner of his mouth, and paused at a tiny little whimper that came out of nowhere.

It took Merlin a moment to realize the whimper had come from him.

Arthur crowded into Merlin's space. A smug little smirk tugged at his lips. He touched Merlin's cheek, smearing blood along his jaw. Nimueh's blood had enough magic in it to jolt Merlin out of his daze.

"Uh," Merlin said. "Um. What do you want me to do with the body?"

Arthur kissed him.

Iron and death. The shiver of the forbidden, a promise of the future.

Merlin tasted blood in Arthur's mouth. He found he didn't care. He chased after the taste even after Arthur pulled away.

"Burn it."

"And then?" Merlin asked.

Arthur raised a brow. He smiled.

"Follow me and find out." 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
